UC-NRLF 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


GIFT  OF 


Class  •-»  v  ' 


30 


T  HE     AUTHOR 


Green  Leaves 

POEMS 


BY 

Elvira  J.  Loring-Scales-Green 

of  Watsonville,  Cal. 


Illustrations  by 
PEDRO    J.   LEMOS 


"We  do  not  choose  the  pathway 

Which  with  weary  feet  we  tread, 
But  are  by  a  wise  Providence 
Through  life's  great  mystery  led." 
— A  Bachelor's   Letter 


PACIFIC  PRESS  PUBLISHING  Co. 
OAKLAND,  CAL. 


X 
OF  THE  \ 

f  UNIVERSITY  ) 

Of 


Copy  rig} ded  1903  by 
Mrs.  E.  J.  L.  Scales-Green. 


MRS.  F.  A.  LORING 

My  dear  friend 

for  her  encouragement  and  help 

in  writing  this  little  volume 

I    lovingly  dedicate 

this   work 


•4*Mr 


PREFACE 

To  the  Public:— 

As  it  is  customary  to  preface  a  few  lines  to 
introduce  any  new  work,  and  as  I  like  to  know 
something  of  the  personality  of  the  writer,  1  will 
introduce  this  little  volume  by  giving  a  few  brief 
incidents  in  my  own  life.  In  case  you  are  inclined 
to  criticize,  you  will  please  pass  the  errors  and  excuse 
them;  while  if  there  is  merit,  I  hope  you  readers  will 
find  pleasure  in  reading  these  poems.  The  writing 
of  them  has  helped  me  to  pass  many  hours  which 
would  otherwise  have  been  very  tedious.  They  have 
been  written  with  my  left  hand,  as  I  have  been  with 
out  my  right  one  for  a  great  many  years.  Notwith 
standing,  I  have  always  made  a  comfortable  living, 
never  have  had  to  beg,  and  have  managed  to  pay  my 
honest  debts. 

Wishing  you  all  a  few  pleasant  hours  in  the 
perusal  of  "Green  Leaves,"  I  am 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

MRS.  E.  J.  SCALES-GREEN. 


CONTENTS 

PACE 

Mystery     ---------- 

A  Soldier's  Letter        - 

Sound        -------                 -        -  13 

Unwritten  Music 

Sweet  Memories        -         -         -        -         -         -         -         -16 

Nancy  and  Joe  1' 

I  Used  to  Sing        --------  23 

Faith  in  God        --------  26 

My  Love 

Going  Home          __------ 

One  Winter  Night 30 

For  Decoration  Day 

Moving  Shadows      - 

An  Invitation  to  John  Doe  to  a  Patriotic  Party 

The  Turned  Picture 38 

Maple  Leaves 

A  Bachelor's  Letter          - 43 

Wishing  and  Doing    -------  50 

Sonnet  to  Two  Old-Maid  Milliners  -----  51 

How  I  Danced    --------  52 

The  Fiddle 54 

Can  One  Be  Kobbed?  55 

Dreaming          -- -56 

My  Vision           --------  57 

The  Childless  Mother      -------  59 

Grief  --------- 

Sonnet  for  a  Young  Lady's  Album  6/ 

Questioning 

There  Is  no  Death            -------  64 

Thine  Eyes  66 
Moving  Pictures       --------67 

The  Open  Well                     - 72 

The  Statue  of  Memory 74 


Contents 

California      -----.__.  76 

Ode  for  the  Opening  Exercises    etc         -  79 

To  the  Native  Daughters    .....  80 

A  Tribute  to  Ceres           ......  81 

Toast  to  Pomona           -  QO 

Truthfulness     -        ...  So 

/~i                                                                       "  °«* 

Courage        ----.____  35 

Grandpa's  Glasses    -        .        .        .        _        _        -"-80 

Discontent    ---__..  go 

Taught  by  the  Fairies     -        -        .        -    "    -    "    -    "  -      89 

Pledge  to  the  Three  Graces         .....  91 

Words  on  Beading  the  Lines,  "Sorrow's  Crown  "etc  -       92 

The  Secret  Chamber    .....        .  .      1  93 

The  Marrying  Widow     .......  95 

Woman's  Eights           -  07 

To  Let      -        .....        ."."."  joo 

What's  in  a  Kiss?       .......  102 

What  Is  Love?        ........  103 

My  Cranky  Clock         --___..  104 

To  Friends  Declining  an  Invitation  to  a  Banquet  -     106 

Old  Shoes      .......         _        .  107 

Money-Bags      ---___.  109 

If  He  But  Had  My  Wisdom      ...  no 
The  Sea             -        ...... 


October     ..........  Hg 

Cider  Apples        ........  Hy 

Pen  and  Ink  .......  ng 

The  Old  Black  Sheep  -        -        ...  120 

The  Fellow      -  .......  123 

Forgive          -         -         -        -%_         .        _         _         .  124 

Sunset       ..........  125 

The  Valley  of  Silence          ......  12G 

No  Creed          .........  12g 

December     .........  129 

10 


UNIVERSITY    | 
Mystery 

Alone  I  stroll  by  the  low,  "restless  sea, 

And  list  to  its  tones  of  sweet  mystery. 

Solemn  and  sad,  or  buoyant  and  glad, 

Read  we  the  waves  by  the  moods  of  our  minds, 

Till  echoes  are  borne  on  the  wings  of  the  winds. 

Lovingly  wooed  by  the  glint  on  the  waves, 
Reminded  of  requiems  said  at  the  graves, 
Ever  and  always  with  music  so  sweet, 
We  all  of  life's  elements  blindly  entreat, 
"Oh,  who  holds  the  key  to  this  sobbing  refrain? 
Will  some  great  interpreter  kindly  explain? 

"What  chases  our  sorrows  and  swallows  our  woes, 
Till  grief  and  all  discord  dissolve  like  the  snows, 
And  ever  a  restfulness  lulls  o'er  the  senses, 
As  the  sweet,  loving  hand  of  a  father  dispenses? 
Oh,  who  will  this  mystery  kindly  unfold? 
It's  wrapped   in   the   ocean   depths,   fold   upon 
fold." 

A    Soldier's   Letter 

I  write  to  you,  dear  Mary, 

Write,  giving  back  your  vow; 
For  I  think,  perhaps,  that  you 

Would  like  your  freedom  now. 


12  A  Soldier's  Letter 

This  life,  so  full  of  changes, 

Brings  sadness  to  the  heart; 
And  the  change  that  time  has  wrought 

For  us  must  tear  our  lives  apart. 

It's  cost  me  many  a  struggle, 
But  I  would  fain  be  strong, 

And  not  commit  against  you, 
Dear,  a  great  and  fearful  wrong. 

.For  life  is  not  a  pastime; 

Don't  let  your  heart  deceive, 
Or  for  a  moment  once  forget 

That  I've  an  empty  sleeve. 

So  I  give  you  back  your  promise, 

But  until  life  is  o'er 
The  treasures  of  those  bright,  fond  months 

Shall  memory  hold  in  store. 

But  the  dreams  that  I  permitted 

My  fancies  then  to  weave, 
Are  all  dispelled,  yes,  quite  dispelled, 

By  this  swinging,  empty  sleeve. 

My  love  shall  be  unchanging, 

Your  life  unfettered,  free, 
And  all  I  ask,  dear  Mary,  is 

That  you'll  remember  me. 


Sound  13 

And  in  each  day's  devotion 

Pray,  and  with  faith  believe, 
For  him  who,  through  life's  toilsome  way, 

Must  wear  this  empty  sleeve. 

Sound 

How  much  of  life's  enjoyment  is  ever  to  be  found 
In  the  little  waves  of  music,  which  we  designate  as 

sound. 
When  wakened  in  the  morning  by  the  singing  of 

the  birds, 

Or  loving,  varied  accents  of  sweet  and  kindly  words, 
Did  you  ever  think  to  notice  just  the  difference  in  life 
If  aroused  by  sounds  of  discord,  of  turbulence  and 

strife? 

The  meadow  lark  gives  pleasure  with  every  joyous 
thrill, 

While  every  note  is  plaintive  from  poor,  lone  whip- 
poor-will. 

The  rippling  stream,  the  cooing  doves,  the  droning 
of  the  bees, 

The  sighing  winds  through  forests,  the  raindrops  on 
the  leaves, 

Each  holds  its  lotted  measure  of  rich  and  joyous 
sound, 

Till  earth  is  filled  with  treasure  with  which  sea  and 
air  abound. 


14  Sound 

There  are  tones  of  cordial  greeting,   and  friendly, 

social  cheer, 
Which,  though  told  in  foreign  language,  are  pleasing 

to  the  ear. 
How  the  ringing  shouts  of  laughter  from  some  little 

stranger  boy 

Will  waken  through  our  heing  a  sudden  sense  of  joy! 
Earth  holds  no  sweeter  music  than  the  laughter  of  a 

child; 
Who  dare  to  frown  upon  it  are  worse  than  creatures 

wild. 

When  the  halls  have  long  been  silent,  how  it  fills  the 

heart  with  dread 
To   hear  the  well-known    footsteps   of   some   lordly 

tyrant's  tread! 
7Tis  thus  we  note  the  changes,  like  the  ringing  of  the 

bells, 
And  leam  the  different  language  with  which  each 

its  story  tells. 
Oft  the  source  of  bitter  anger  or  the  cause  of  joy 

profound 
Can   be   traced   alike   to   discords   or  harmonies   of 

sound. 


Unwritten    Music 

I  would  list  to  a  song  of  music, 

To  a  song  that's  all  our  own; 
Just  speak  the  words  which  compose  it, 

I  will  only  choose  the  tone. 

No  studied  rules  are  needed 

Far  a  transport  of  delight; 
I've  caught  it  from  the  whispered  winds, 

In  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

Though  the  music  was  all  unwritten, 
It  oft  came  between  the  bars, 

And  the  mystery  of  translating 
Is  a  secret  with  the  stars. 

Words  treated  of  many  a  subject — 
But  the  tone  was  always  love. 

My  heart  is  restless  and  yearning, 
Like  the  captive  carrier  dove. 

Still,  I  know,  when  this  weary  waiting 

Is  forever  at  an  end, 
That  our  souls  will  be  united 

In  that  harmony  which  blends. 

15 


16  Sweet  Memories 

So  I  will  try  to  be  content 
With,  this  echo  in  my  heart; 

And,  although  unwritten  music, 
Of  that  song  it  is  a  part. 


Sweet   Memories 

Wrapped  in  a  coat,  dumped  in  a  heap, 
On  a  lounge  in  the  office  Fm  trying  to  sleep; 
Not  a  sound  breaks  the  silence,  awaking  my  fears, 
But  memory  is  busy  with  past  buried  years. 

Like  mists  through  the  valley  preceding  the  rain, 
A  troop  of  sweet  fancies  are  flooding  my  brain. 
I  see  the  brown  hilltops  just  flecked  with  the  snow, 
And  fancy  a  presence  I  once  used  to  know. 

There  thrills  through  my  being  a  rapture  of  bliss, 
And  just  one  brief  moment  Fm  happy  with  this; 
I  know  the  deep  joy  which  you  could  not  control, 
For  I  was  allowed  just  one  glimpse  of  your  soul. 

It  came  all  unbidden,  flashed  up  through  your  eyes, 
For  truth  has  no  semblance  wherewith  to  disguise 
A  foretaste  of  heaven  which  to  angels  belongs, 
When  time  and  eternity  merge  into  songs. 


QFTHI 

Nancy  and  JUNIVERBITY        17 

•N^c      °'  / 

Sweet  rapture  in  living  frail  mortals  attain, 
Which  Fate  in  his  turning  doth  ruthlessly  maim; 
These  bright,  golden  moments,  so  wholly  complete, 
Sweet  memory  alone  has  the  power  to  repeat. 

So  real  are  my  fancies,  I  see  your  dear  face, 

And  ask  that  it  follow  to  sleep's  sweet  embrace. 

Oh,  say  not  forever  that  memories  must  die, 

But  bring  this  dear  scene  when  I  last  close  mine  eye! 

If  granted  this  prayer,  then  the  change  will  seem 

sweet, 
When  I  sink  to  rest  in  the  long,  dreamless  sleep. 


Nancy   and    Joe 

Nancy  was  raised  in  the  city, 
But  married  plain,  country  Joe. 

She  chose  from  the  whole  profession, 
And  surely  she  ought  to  know. 

How  they  ever  got  acquainted 
Is  something  strange  to  me; 

But  she  was  plump  and  pretty 
As  ever  she  couljd  be. 


18  Nancy  and  J&e 

While  to  Joseph's  manly  qualities 
A  woman  couldn't  be  blind; 

If  you  searched  the  whole  creation, 
His  equal  was  hard  to  find. 

I  suppose  Joe  tried  to  please  her, 

Taking  that  wedding  tour. 
She  dreaded  the  thing  like  mischief, 

And  wasn't  happy  an  hour. 

She  said,  "If  only  the  fashions 
Had  a  bit  of  common  sense 

I'd  have  stayed  at  home  with  Joseph, 
And  saved  that  great  expense." 

But  she  didn't  have  the  courage, 
Those  blissful,  dreamy  days, 

Though  she'd  rather  have  the  money 
In  forty  different  ways. 

The  old  front  fence  is  nearly  down, 

And  .sadly  needs  repairs; 
The  wide  front  hall  looks  like  distress — 

No  railing  on  the  stairs. 

The  roof  leaks  on  the  cow-shed 
(We'd  planned  to  build  a  barn), 

But  when  I  spoke  to  Joe  that  night, 
He  "didn't  care  a  darn." 


Nancy  and  Joe  19 

She  would  rather  have  had  a  carriage 

Behind  those  spanking  bays, 
But  she  won't  find  no  time  to  ride 

These  busy  working  days. 

She's  brought  a  grand  piano 

(I  wonder  when  she'll  play); 
She'd  better  lock  the  thing  right  up, 

And  throw  the  key  away. 

Joe  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  her. 

I  answered,  "Can  she  cook?" 
Joe  said,  "You  bet;  for  I  will  buy 

A  splendid  buck-eye  book." 

Perhaps  I'm  some  to  blame  myself, 

And  put  it  in  his  head, 
But  Joe  is  awful  fussy 

About  his  cakes  and  pie  and  bread. 

In  book  lore  I  am  ignorant, 

I've  studied  men,  instead; 
If  you  have  a  bit  of  comfort, 

Depends  on  how  they're  fed. 

Well,  things  run  smoothly  on  for  months; 

I  done  the  bigger  part, 
Until  I  caught  her  practicing 

That  new  game  called  Delsarte. 


Nancy  and  Joe 

In  anger  and  surprise  I  said, 
"If  you've  your  senses  found, 
You'd  better  take  the  dusting  brush 
And  sweep  the  cobwebs  down/' 

She  said  that  I  was  country  green; 

I  called  her  city  smart, 
And  asked  her  what  she  thought  she'd  find 

A  reaching  for  high  art. 

I  took  my  clothes  and  went  away 

To  visit  Sally  Ann, 
Though  we  expected  company 

And  another  hired  man. 

I  stayed  away  a  month  or  two, 

And  then  I  started  back, 
And  learned  a  lesson  as  I  rode 

Upon  that  railroad  track. 

Besides  conductor,  engineer, 

And  brakeman  on  each  side, 
We  had  to  take  a  fireman, 

'Fore  ever  we  could  ride. 

When  I  got  home  I  found  that  Joe 

And  Nancy' d  had  a  duff. 
Although  she'd  cooked  her  very  best, 

Joe  called  it  "horrid  stuff." 


Nancy  and  Joe  21 

I  didn't  take  no  notice, 

Just  asked  them  how  they  did; 
Poor  Nancy  looked  all  jaded  out, 

And  went  away  and  hid. 

Then  I  asked  Joe  if  he  should  build 

His  new  barn  right  away; 
He  said  that  he  had  tried  to  find 

A  carpenter  that  day. 

Why  don't  you  build  your  barn  yourself, 

And  thus  you'd  save  the  pay? 
The  lumber  all  lies  on  the  ground, 

And  has  been  there  since  May. 

Joe  looked  surprised,  but  merely  said, 

"We  hav'n't  any  tools; 
And  if  we  had,  about  this  work 
These  men  are  pesky  fools." 

"Looks  likely  you  can't  build  a  barn 

With  lumber  all  sawed  out; 
Your  father  built  a  house  of  logs, 
And  he  weren't  half  so  stout." 

"Now  Joe/'  I  said,  and  riz  right  up, 

"You  can  yourself  select, 
For  I've  brought  home  a  little  book 
Which  they  call  Architect. 


22  Nancy  and  Joe 

"Now  Joe/'  I  said  quite  earnestly, 

"You  practice  on  the  barn, 
And  let  Nan  go  to  cooking-school; 
I'm  sure  that  she  could  Tarn. 

"A  seamstress,  laundress,  dairy-maid,, 

A  nursery  girl  and  cook, 
You'll  scarcely  find  combined  in  one, 
And  so  you  needn't  look. 

"Times  keep  a  changing  for  the  men; 

Folks  didn't  use  to  fail 
When  they  cut  their  grain  with  sickles, 
And  thrashed  it  with  a  flail. 

"All  day  they  plowed  with  oxen, 

Made  the  children's  shoes  at  night, 
Or  mended  harnesses  instead, 
If  they  could  have  a  light. 

"Those  days  men  worked  contentedly, 

'Thout  carrying  sich  sail; 
They  didn't  sit  up  half  the  night 
To  read  their  daily  mail." 

Here  Joe  broke  in,  arid  tried  to  tell 
How  Nancy  burned  her  cake, 

And  how  she  fussed  about  the  stove; 
It  smoked  and  wouldn't  bake. 


I  Used  to  Sing  23 

That  when  she  brought  it  on  for  tea, 

They  found  it  wasn't  done; 
And  when  they  tried  to  cut  it 

Was  when  the  fuss  begun. 

Nan  said  she  never,  never  saw 

Such  dreadful,  dreadful  wood, 
And  just  declared  she  couldn't  cook; 

Joe  said  his  mother  could. 

Nan  said  she  envied  Adam's  wife 

Far,  far  above  all  other, 
For  surely  he  could  never  brag 

To  her  about  his  mother. 

Since  Adam's  day  all  human  folks 

Have  a  little  love  and  strife; 
But  where's  the  man,  I'd  like  to  know, 

Who'd  live  without  a  wife. 


I    Used   to    Sing 

I  used  to  sing  an  old,  old  song, — it's  somehow  slipped 

away, — 
And,  strangely  as  it  now  appears,  it's  haunted  me 

all  day. 
I  sung  this  song  most  sweetly  in  the  merry  month 

of  May. 


24  I  Used  to  Sing 

The  words  Fve  quite  forgotten,  but  the  chorus  runs 

this  way: 
"Oh!  the  old  men  they  are  old,  and  the  old  men 

they  are  gray; 

But  the  young  men  they  are  so  full  of  fun, — 
Away,  old  men,  away — away,  old  men,  away." 

Life  seemed  just  filled  with  sunshine,  no  shadows 
crossed  the  way; 

My  feet  kept  time  to  music,  as  lambkins  skip  and 
play; 

My  bounding  heart  with  rapture  leaped  to  greet  the 
opening  day; 

And  with  the  birds  most  happily  I  sang  this  rounde 
lay: 

"Oh!  the  old  men  they  are  old,  and  the  old  men  they 

are  gray; 
But  the  young  men  they  are  so  full  of  fun, — 

Away,  old  men,  away — away,  old  men,  away." 

The  time  has  kept  on  turning,  shadows  fall  across 

the  way; 
And  I  have  kept  on  singing,  but  have  changed  my 

tune,  you'll  say; 
For  what  about  the  young  men,  oh,  the  young  men 

of  to-day! 
There's    none    that's    worth    a    nickel    till    they're 

sprinkled  well  with  gray. 


/  Used  to  Sing  25 

Oh!  the  young  men  they  are  young,  and  the  young 

men  they  are  gay; 
But  there's  none  that's  worth  a  nickel  till  they're 

sprinkled  well  with  gray. 

Alas!    I    learned    my   song  too   soon,    as   lassies    of 

to-day 
Are  thinking  that  the  chorus  runs  quite  right  the 

other  way. 
Oh!  when  they've  learned  their  music,  and  through 

glasses  truly  see, 
'Tis  then  they'll  change  their  chorus,  and  quite  with 

me  agree, 
That  young  men  they  are  young,  and  young  men 

they  are  gay; 
But  none  are  worth  a  nickel  till  they're  sprinkled 

well  with  gray. 

The  truth  has  long  my  story  proved,  no  matter  which 
they  say; 

If  strains  are  kept  in  harmony,  there's  music  any 
way. 

It's  when  old  maids  and  widows  sing  they  count  the 
old  men  gay, 

And  get  the  time  in  discord,  and  mix  things  every 
way. 

Oh!  the  old  men  they  are  old,  and  the  young  men 
they  are  gay; 

But  though  neither's  worth  a  nickel,  yet  they'll  have 
them  either  way; 

Yes,  they'll  have  them  either  way. 


Faith   in    God 

I  sit  in  the  twilight,,  musing,  living  o'er  the  silent 

past, 

And  dear,  familiar  faces  come  vividly  and  fast. 
'Tis   hushed,   no   bounding   footsteps   will   frighten 

them  away; 
Ah!  they  gather  not  so  closely  in  the  tumult  of  the 

day. 

There's  one  dear  face  among  them  I  would  single 

from  the  rest, 
With  loving  arms  would  clasp  him  once  more  to  my 

aching  breast. 
In  his  life,  in  the  hush  of  twilight,  I  taught  Christ's 

prayer  anew, 
Of  God,  the  all-wise  Parent;  he  wondered,  "Can  it 

be  true?" 


I  told  of  His  loving-kindness,   that  He  doeth  all 

things  well, 
That  those  who  implicitly  trust  Him  shall  one  day 

with  Him  dwell. 
In  those  bright  days  of  sunshine,  'twas  easy  thus 

to  say, 
"I'll  trust  the  all-wise  Parent;  He  surely  knows  the 

way." 

26 


Faith  in   God  27 

But  when  our  darling  sickened,  when  he  suffered  so 

with  pain, 
And   they    said,    with    awe-struck    faces,    "He    will 

never  walk  again/' 
Then  came  a  cloud  like  midnight,  shutting  out  my 

faith  in  God, 
For  I  thought  that  one  so  trusting  needed  not  His 

chastening  rod. 

Years,  all  fraught  with   life's  deep  anguish,  passed 

to  find  him  crippled  still; 
While  I  murmured  night  and  morning,  "Guide  me 

by  Thy  sovereign  will." 
Tn  the  mystery  of  silence,  he  has  vanished  from  my 

sight, 
But  oft  I  feel  his  presence  in  the  shadows'  changing 

light. 

Thus  I  sit  and  wait  and  ponder,  asking  here  with 

bated  breath, 
"Is  the  mystery  of  living  folded  in  the  shroud  of 

death?" 

Still  I  ask  with  vain  repining  that  a  miracle  repeat, 
For  1  find  that  I  am  listening  for  his  crutch  upon 

the  street. 


My   Love 

My  love,  she  is  not  the  fairest, 
Judging  by  the  molded  clay, 

But  her  grace  and  kindly  manners 
Hold  me  subject  to  her  sway. 

From  her  eyes  sped  cupid's  arrows, 
Just  to  wound  my  aching  heart; 

But  the  music  in  her  laughter 

Brought  far  more  than  healer's  art. 

In  her  sweet  and  subtle  presence 
I  have  found  such  countless  worth, 

That  it's  far  above  comparing 
With  the  sordid  dross  of  earth. 

Sweetest,  dearest  of  earth's  treasures 
Is  the  gift  of  human  love; 

All  the  one  that  we  are  promised 
We  shall  bear  to  realms  above. 


Going   Home 

To-day  I  go  home,  and  can  hardly  wait 

For  these  few  last  hours  to  drag; 
Fve  counted  the  months  and  counted  the  weeks; 

Then  over  the  days  I  bragged. 


Going  Home  29 

But  since  this  day  peeped  up  in  the  east 

It  has  seemed  interminably  long; 
Sometimes  when  I'm  looking  at  the  clock, 

I  think  it's  decidedly  wrong. 

But  now  it  is  five,  and  the  train  makes  a  start, 

And  I  shall  be  moving  along; 
Although  I  am  silent,  demure,  and  shy, 

My  heart  is  in  tumult  of  song. 

It  is  not  this  going,  this  speeding  away, 
And  constantly  changing  of  motion, 

That  quickens  my  pulse,  and  kindles  my  eye, 
And  fills  my  heart  with  emotion. 

It's  not  just  leaving  the  dull,  old  town 
(For  I  have  had  pleasure  and  profit, 

And  found  many  friendships  decidedly  warm, 
And  so  have  no  reason  to  scoff  it). 

But  I  am  so  happy  to  know  as  I  go, 
When  the  train  pulls  up  to  the  station, 

That  friends  will  be  waiting,  with  glances  of  love, 
And  ended  will  be  my  probation. 

I  shall  hear  the  scamper  of  glad  little  feet, 

And  the  cry  of  exultant  joy; 
And  meet  at  the  gate,  where  they  lovingly  wait, 

My  wife,  my  girl,  and  my  boy. 


One   Winter  Night 

On  a  winter  night,  both  clear  and  cold, 
I  saw  a  sight  that  I've  never  told; 
But,  if  I  tell  it  now  to  yon, 
You'll  never  question  that  it's  true. 

I  sat  by  the  fire  in  a  quiet  nook, 
And  in  my  lap  held  a  lovely  book, — 
Or  it  held  me  with  close  attention, — 
The  flight  of  time  I  need  not  mention. 

But  it  had  slipped  far  into  night 
Ere  I  roused  myself  in  half  affright, 
And  yawned  and  thought  to  shake  the  fire, 
Then  arose,  intending  to  retire. 

"I  must  for  caution  turn  the  key, 
And  just  peep  out,  in  hopes  to  see 
Some  other  light  as  late  as  mine, — 
Excepting  where  they're  selling  wine." 

The  moon  was  out  in  silvery  light, 
And  just  across,  within  plain  sight, 
An  object  was — so  very  strange 
It  held  me  spellbound  by  the  change. 

30 


One  Winter  Night  31 

Though  there  so  plainly  in  full  view, 
Whether  it  were  persons,  one  or  two, 
Or  whether  it  were  none  at  all, 
It  looked  so  much  like  a  huge  ball, 

"It  is  a  mystery/7  I  said. 
It  at  that  m.oment  raised  its  head. 
It  is  a  man,  a  Hercules, 
And  some  one  with  him,  I  believe. 

And  thus  they  stood;  while  I  stood  thinking, 
"They're  some  men,  likely,  who've  been  drinking, 
Or  boon  companions,  mischief  plotting, 
Their  shadows  on  the  snow-drifts  blotting." 

And  thus  I  stood  in  wonder  gazing, 
The  objects  seemed  so  quite  amazing; 
What  can  it  be  that  goes  aright 
In  these  small  hours  of  the  night? 

Wonder  of  wonders!  if  I'm  human, 

Part  of  that  object  is  a  woman. 
"It's  plain;  I  understand/'  I  said, 
"Just  why  it  was  he  lost  his  head, 

"To  catch  her  words,  or  gain  by  stealth 
Some  kisses  for  the  little  elf." 
I  wondered  then  I'd  been  so  stupid, 
For  any  fool  would  know  'twas  Cupid. 


32  One  Winter  Night 

He  dallied  there  full  half  an  hour, 
As  he  were  still  in  Eden's  bower, 
At  his  old  game  in  public  marts, 
Where  most  successful  swapping  hearts. 

She,  little  Hebe,  could  hardly  stand, 
And  he  held  close  upon  each  hand. 
Sometimes,  as  they  would  change  position, 
I  plainly  saw  her  opposition. 

Ah,  ha!  she  understands  her  art; 
She's  aiming  at  his  very  heart; 
Although  she  seems  to  be  unwilling, 
Well  knows  she  that  her  looks  are  killing — • 

But  what  has  broken  on  their  spell 
But  the  faint  sound  of  sleighing  bells. 
Their  hurried  lips  in  kisses  meet, 
And  he  goes  flying  down  the  street. 

And  through  a  side  street  he  has  gone, 
And  all  that  way  is  clear  as  dawn; 
While  she  moves  on,  demure  and  slow, 
As  if  she'd  come  alone  just  so. 

The  horseman,  in  a  swell  box-sleigh, 
Came  swiftly,  and  I  heard  him  say, 
"0  Christine,  now  this  is  not  fair; 
I  searched  the  ball-room  everywhere, 


One   Winter  Night  33 

Till  some  one  said  you'd  run  away; 
You  know  Fd  take  you  any  day/' 
But  she  just  simply  said,  "Good-night," 
And  quickly  fled  from  out  of  sight. 

But  many  a  night,  when  lamps  were  out, 
I've  seen  her  come  and  look  about, 
As  if  she'd  lost  some  treasure  there, 
Which   she  was   searching  everywhere. 

And  ere  the  leafing  of  the  trees 
I  saw  her  meet  her  Hercules, 
Who  claimed  her  as  his  only  mate, 
As  if  the  thing  were  planned  by  fate. 

He  fumbled  in  his  pockets  then, 
With  all  the  awkwardness  of  men. 
And  said,  "Christine,  I  have  the  ring 
Which  I  assured  you  I  would  bring. 

And  now  we'll  go  and  find  the  parson, 
And  help  him  Hymen's  knot  to  fasten:" 
While  Pete,  poor  Pete,  the  man  who  missed  her, 
Consoled  himself  with  her  half  sister. 


For   Decoration    Day 

To-day  marks  a  mile-stone  in  the  weary  lives 
Of  women  who  once  were  brave  soldiers'  wives; 
And,  though  the  heart  breaks,  they  hope  and  they 

pray 
That  some  one  will  decorate  those  graves  far  away. 


Moving   Shadows 

I  can  see  some  moving  shadows  as  they  glide  upon 

the  wall, 
And  presume  these  silent  pictures  are  familiar  to 

you  all, 

People  riding  in  a  rocker,  like  a  ship  upon  the  sea, 
A  well-grown  man  and  baby  that  is  plain  as  it  can  be. 

The  shadows  seem  quite  happy  as  they're  swinging  to 

and  fro; 

I  fancy  there  is  music  of  a  song  we  all  well  know: 
"We'll  live  and  love,  my  little  one,  and  never  mind 

the  weather; 
You're  just  as  good  as  daddy  wants,   and  just  as 

sweet  as  ever." 

The   shadows   now   are   kissing,   as  back  and   forth 

they  go; 
The  swaying,  gliding  motion  is  plainly  getting  slow; 

34 


Moving  Shadows  35 

Four  hands  are  linked  together,  as  one  can  plainly 

see, 
And  the  little  baby  shadow  has  a  foot  upon  each 

knee. 

Now  the  shadow  takes   a  tumble,   little   head   just 

sweeps  the  floor, 
Till  gurgling,   choking,  laughing,  it  is  righted  up 

once  more. 
The  great  arms  now  are  folding  that  little  one  to 

keep, 
And  music  must  be  changing  to  a  lullaby  of  sleep. 

Ah!  they're  doubled  up  together,  till  they  look  like 
one  huge  ball, 

As  with  forward,  upward  motion  they  float  across 
the  wall; 

I  rise  to  follow  after,  lest  I  lose  their  kind  "Good 
night," 

And  am  kissing  those  two  shadows,  ere  they  vanish 
from  my  sight. 


An    Invitation   to    John    Doe    to    a 
Patriotic    Party 

We're  going  to  have  a  party  (say  George  Washington 

and  me); 

If  you  get  an  invitation,  the  elite  you'll  surely  see. 
And   when  you   see  our  party,  you'll   pronounce  it 

just  immense, 
For,  when  we  get  to   blowing  in,   we   never  count 

expense, — 
With  beer  and  oysters  and  champagne  and  chicken 

fricassee, 
If  any  patriotic  man  will  lend  the  cash  to  me. 

At  the   old  house   on   the   corner   that's   known   as 

Poverty  Flat; 
The   rooms  are   rather  small,    I   know,   and    poorly 

furnished  at  that; 
But  we'll  have  such  martial  music, — a  fife  and  big 

bass  drum, — 
That  all  the  neighbors  thereabout   will  think  we're 

surely  some, — 
With  beer  and  oysters  and  champagne  and  chicken 

fricassee, 
If  any  patriotic  man  will  lend  the  cash  to  me. 

I've  been  studying  how  to  invite  you,  and  wonder 
ing  if  you'd  come, 


An  Invitation  to  John  Doe,   etc.  37 

Calculating  on  the  expenses  and  where  I  can  borrow 

the  sum. 
We  number  just  four  hundred — every  one  is  on  the 

square — 
And  the  cream  of  high  society  will  every  one  be 

there, — 
With  beer  and  oysters  and  champagne  and  chicken 

fricassee, 
If  any  patriotic  man  will  lend  the  cash  to  me. 

Just  bring  your  last   enamorer;  she'll   think  you're 

in  the  swim, 
And  will  judge  you  have  the  ducats  by  the  way  you 

blow  'em  in; 

For  a  patriotic  party  is  a  very  swell  affair, 
And  you'll  never  count  expense,  nor  miss  of  being 

there. 
All  those  who  are  not  invited   will  surely  feel  the 

slight,— 
While  we  who  are  strictly  in  it  will  claim  it's  out 

of  sight. 

So  just  come  on,  let's  whoop  her  up  this  twenty- 
second  night, 
And   show   our  loyal   patriotism   as   social,   shining 

lights, — 
With  beer  and  oysters  and  champagne  and  chicken 

fricassee; 
I  think  you  are  the  very  man  to  lend  the  cash  to  me. 


The   Turned   Picture 

I  grew  a  fair  and  sturdy  youth,  my  days  were  full 

of  dreams, 
I  chased  the  shadows  and  the  lights  along  the  pebbly 

streams; 
And  time  rolled  on,  the  years  went  by,  unheeded 

as  they  passed. 
I  know,  as  I  look  backward  now,  they  flew  by  all 

too  fast. 
I  changed  from  boy  to  manhood,  and  chafed  beneath 

its  cares; 
Oh!    often    were    forgotten    my    mother's    earnest 

prayers. 

Though  reckless  as  a  sailor,  my  hand  knew  not  a 

crime, 
But  slander  tossed  my  name  about  with  many  a 

scornful  chime, 
Till  at  last  I  grew  defiant,  and  wished  the  world  were 

dead, 
And,  like  all   other  prodigals,  upon  such  husks  I 

fed; 
Then  wearied,  worn,  and  suffering,  I  sought  the  old, 

old  home, 
Where  shielded,  warmed,  and  welcomed,  I  hoped  no 

more  to  roam. 


The  Turned  Picture  39 

But    change   had   wrought   such   havoc,    I   scarcely 

knew  the  place, 
And   felt   its   very  shabbiness  added   much   to   my 

disgrace. 
There  was  no  response  of  welcome;  they  wished  me 

truly  dead, 
Though  I  have  never  learned  it  from  any  word  they 

said; 
But  through   their   cold   indifference,   in   so   many 

cruel  ways, 
Until  the  darkness  of  the  nights  was  brighter  than 

the  days. 

One  day  I  sought  my  mother's  room,  where  all  our 

pictures  hung, 
And  where  so  oft  in  former  days  I  round  her  knees 

had  clung. 
Upon  its  walls  I  fondly  gazed,  and  plainly  counted 

all; 
But  one  hung  in  the  shadow,  with  its  face  turned 

toward  the  wall. 

The  clods  of  earth  more  kindly  fall  on  our  untimely 

dead, 
Than  acts  like  these  by  kindred  hands,  where  hearts 

are  crushed  instead. 
This  froze  my  heart,  and  never  more  their  sympathy 

I'll  crave, 
For  all  the  rights  of  kinship  are  buried  in  the  grave. 


40  Maple  Leaves 

So  now  I  roam  the  city  round,  with  no  abiding- 
place, 

And  drink  my  wine  and  lager,  to  drown  my  old 
disgrace; 

For  the  love  for  one's  own  kindred  grows  wonderfully 
small 

When  he  finds  that  his  own  picture  is  turned  face 
toward  the  wall. 

Maple    Leaves 

Uncle  Sam  has  sent  his  postman  with  a  package  to 

my  door; 
I    wonder   what   the   thing   contains,   as   I   quickly 

glance  it  o'er; 
It's  a  most  uncommon  parcel,  with  a  swelling  on  its 

side, 
Like  a  wart  upon  the  finger,  which  one  vainly  tries 

to  hide. 

It's  wrapped  and  tied  securely  with  a  cord  so  strong 

and  thick 
I'm  sure  I  can  not  break  it;  please  bring  the  scissors 

quick. 
It's  cut,  and  from  its  contents  falls,  all  strewn  upon 

the  floor, 
Such  wondrous  tints  and  colors  it  has  never  held 

before. 


"  Ye  skirted  'long  the  river  banks,  and  grew 

upon  the  hill, 
And  waved  your  beckoning  shadows  towards 

the  old  forsaken  mill." 

— Maple  Leaves, 


Maple  Leaves  41 

All  amber,  brown,  and  scarlet,  and  lights  of  silvery 

sheen, 
With   splashes  of  golden  sunshine,  all  mixed  with 

shades  of  green. 
Here's  a  magical  inscription, — ah!  a  pass  to  "long 

ago," 
And  there  rises,  like  a  mirage,  all  the  friends  I  used 

to  knew.' 

I  see  the  dense,  old  forests,  with  their  ever-varying 

shade; 
Ye  were  their  crowning  glory,  through  every  dell 

and  glade. 
Ye  skirted  'long  the  river  banks,   and   grew  upon 

the  hill, 
And  waved  your  beckoning  shadows  towrards  the  old, 

forsaken  mill. 

Where  once,  in  autumn's  afternoon,  I  found  you  all 

alone, 
And  then  and  there  I  claimed  you,  my  love,  my  very 

own. 
The  radiant  light  of  sunset  glowed  on  every  shrub 

and  tree, 
When   you   raised   your  hands   and   gathered   some 

maple  leaves  for  me. 

These   seem   like   long-lost   treasures   from   out   the 
buried  past; 


42  Maple  Leaves 

I  have  their  very  counterparts  locked  away,  secure 

and  fast. 
We  pledged   our  troth  in  silence,  'neath  the   old 

mill's  sheltering  eaves, 
But  our  lives  have  been  as  varied  as  these  gorgeous 

maple  leaves. 
I  fancy  that  these  leaflets  grew  upon  that  selfsame 

tree, 
Were  gathered  late  by  loving  hands  and  forwarded 

to  me. 

With  splashes  of  brown  and  amber,  just  a  little  light 

and   shade, 
They  live  but  one  brief  season,  and  just  as  quickly 

fade. 
Ah!  a  love  that  is  inconstant  fills  the  heart  with 

bitter  pains, 
And  leaves  our  lives  as  checkered  as  these  gorgeous 

maple  stains, 
All  amber,  brown,  and  scarlet,  with  a  little  tint  of 

flame, 
Which  death's  frost  uses  always,  wherever  he  writes 

his  name. 

A  forest  without  the  maple  leaves  is  sombre,  dark, 

and  chill, 
As  life  without  our  loved  ones  is  harder  and  heavier 

still. 


hailed  each  dear  old  landmark 

s  though  it  were  a  friend, 
irhe /dncied  welcome*  could  feel 

they  must  surely  .send. 


A     BACHELOR'S     LETTER 


A  Bachelor's  Letter  43 

So  of  all  the  leaves  in  the  forest,  through  the  north, 

the  east,  and  west, 
The  gorgeous  leaves  of  the  maple  I'm  sure  I  love 

the  best. 


A   Bachelor's   Letter 

Dear  Jack,  your  letter  came  to  hand 
Two  months  ago  or  more; 

I  have  delayed  from  time  to  time, 
Now  wish  the  task  was  o'er. 

Should  I  attempt  to  answer 
All  the  queries  that  you  ask, 

'Twould  be  to  you  unprofitable, 
To  me  an  arduous  task; 

So  I  will  answer  what  I  deem 
Is  best  that  you  should  know, 

And  you'll  excuse  your  uncle,  Jack, 
This  rambling  style  below. 

It's  true  I  am  a  bachelor, 

And  very  odd,  you  say; 
My  eyes  are  losing  luster, 

My  hair  grows  thin  and  gray. 


44  A   Bachelor's  Letter 

Why  thus  I  choose  to  journey  on 
Through  life's  uneven  way 

Is  to  yourself  a  mystery 

Quite  unexplained,  you  say. 

We  do  not  choose  the  pathway 
Which  with  weary  feet  we  tread, 

But  are  by  a  wise  Providence 
Through  life's  great  mystery  led. 

I  had  my  spring-time  years  ago, 
Of  promise  rich  and  rare. 

I  wooed  and  won  my  Mahel; 
My  promised  bride  was  fair. 

But  I  was  poor  and  much  too  proud 
The  toiler's  hill  to  climb, 

And  asked  my  own  sweet  Mabel 
To  wait  till  wealth  was  mine. 

For  rumor  told  that  gold  was  found 

Upon  the  western  coast, 
Where  man  could  make  his  fortune 

In  two  short  years,  at  most. 

I  said,  "I'll  seek  this  promised  land 
Filled  with  its  hidden  treasure, 

And  in  all  the  future  years,  Mabel, 
Your  wish  shall  be  mv  pleasure." 


A  Bachelor'*  Letter        .  45 

To-night  comes  back  that  dear  old  scene — 

That  last  night  on  the  beach. 
How  pain  and  grief  at  parting 

Saddened  the  heart  of  each! 

The  same  sweet  moonbeams  linger 

O'er  ocean,  rock,  and  peak, 
But  shadows  in  the  valley 

More  slowly  seem  to  creep. 

I  sit  in  silence,  living  o'er 

The  dee])  and  mystic  spell, 
And  o'er  me  comes  an  influence. 

From  whence  I  can  not  tell. 

But  I  am  wandering  far  away 

From  my  intended  track; 
Perhaps,  Fm  getting  tiresome, 

Had  better  hasten  back. 

I  journeyed  to  the  land  of  gold, 

And  reaped  a  goodly  fill; 
But,  coming  o'er  the  isthmus  home, 

Dame  Fortune  played  me  ill. 

For  weary  months  I  lingered  there, 

My  hope  of  life  near  fled; 
In  after  years  they  told  me 

They  mourned  for  me  as  dead. 


46  A  Bachelor* t  Letter 

Oh!  the  deep,  the  sad  dejection 

I  felt  upon  that  day 
When  I  learned  my  fortune  all  had  gone 

In  some  mysterious  way. 

Then  I  arose  with  weary  feet 
To  retrace  the  toilsome  track, 

For  I  could  not,  with  all  my  pride, 
Come  empty-handed  back. 

Thus  I  worked,  I  toiled,  I  delved, 
And,  wearied,  sought  my  cot. 

One  night  I  had  a  strange,  wild  dream, 
Which  I  have  ne'er  forgot. 

My  mother  bended  o'er  me 

With  looks  divinely  fair, 
A  crown  of  amber  lightly  lay 

Upon  her  golden  hair. 

Her  hand  upraised  a  banner; 
These  words  I  plainly  read, 
"Poor  boy,  poor  boy,"  the  banner  said, 

"You  knew  not  what  you  sold 
When  you  exchanged  your  happiness 
For  yellow,  shining  gold." 


A  Bachelor's  Letter  47 

I  raised  to  clasp  my  mother 

And  grasp  her  shining  light, 
But  she  had  gone  I  knew  not  where, 

So  noiseless  was  her  flight. 

Here  I  was  seized  with  wild  unrest 

To  seek  my  native  shore — 
But,  Jack,  dear  Jack,  I  can't  go  on; 

How  can  I  tell  you  more? 

The  good  ship  seemed  a  laggard 

Upon  the  surging  tide; 
For  I  was  quite  impatient 

To  meet  my  waiting  bride. 

At  last  we  neared  the  harbor 
That  e'er  was  dear  to  me, 
"This  is  my  ain,  ain  countrie, 
This  town  beside  the  sea." 

I  hailed  each  dear  old  landmark 

As  though  it  were  a  friend; 
The  fancied  welcome  I  could  feel 

Which  they  must  surely  send. 

They  stood  like  warning  sentinels, 

Solemn,  unmoved,  and  fast, 
And  told  in  silent  language 

Of  a  dead  and  buried  past. 


48  A  Bachelor's  Letter 

Where  once  grew  briar  and  bramble 
In  thick  and  matted  hedge 

The  town(  now  grown  a  city) 
Came  to  the  water's  edge. 

The  hurrying  crowd,  the  tumult, 
Spoke  vividly  of  change; 

All  seemed  to  be  familiar, 
And  yet  exceeding  strange. 

Among  the  throng  of  strangers 

One  dear,  familiar  face; 
Eagerly  I  questioned  him 

Of  people  'bout  the  place. 

But  when  I  asked  for  Mabel 

His  eyes  diffused  with  tears; 
He  grasped  my  hand,  and  whispered, 
"She's  been  a  wife  for  years. 

"But  you're  in  time  to  see  her, 
And  say  the  ]ast  good-by, 
For  Mabel's  days  are  numbered, 
And  she  must  surely  die." 

The  scene  within  her  chamber 
I'll  draw  the  curtain  o'er, 

And  only  tell  you  of  her  child, 
That  played  upon  the  floor. 


A  Bachelor's  Letter  49 

I've  watched  her  happy  childhood, 

Her  sweet  and  artless  youth,, 
And  long  before  you  knew,  Jack, 

I  had  divined  the  truth. 

Your  letter  held  just  one  surprise 

Which  hade  me  see  you  wed, 
That  was  its  touch  of  tenderness 

For  old,  gray  Uncle  Ned. 

I'll  come  to  see  you  married, 

And  greet  your  loving  wife, 
Wish  you  both  a  glad  New  Year, 

A  long  and  happy  life. 

And  when  I  come  away  again, 

If  she  would  know  me  more, 
Just  take  my  letter  down,  Jack, 

And  read  its  contents  o'er. 

Say  when  I  look  within  her  eyes 

I  see  her  mother's  face, 
An  image  dwells  within  my  heart 

Which  I  would  not  efface. 

And  when  I'm  done  with  earth  life, 

We  hope  to  meet  above, 
Where  we  shall  have  perfected 

This  dream  of  human  love. 


Wishing   and  Doing 

I  borrowed  the  pen  of  a  genius — 

In  my  fingers  its  language  was  dumb — 

I  besought,  I  implored  of  the  muses 
To  honor  my  prayer  and  come. 

I  asked  an  exalted  position, 

And  wished  for  a  high-honored  name, 
With  joy  and  peace  as  companions, 

Then  expected  the  glories  of  fame. 

They  laughed  as  with  scorn  and  derision, 
Till  humbly  I  bowed  low  my  head, 

And  pained  with  anguish  and  sorrow, 
I  grieved  o'er  my  beautiful  dead. 

They  gave  me  no  hope  of  achievement, 
But  showed  me  that  toil  was  my  share, 

And,  though  humble  and  low  my  position, 
The  award  would  equal  my  care. 

This  was  said,  with  a  grave  look  of  counsel: 

"To  the  toilers  true  triumph  awaits; 
!NTo  wine  is  ere  brought  from  the  vintage 
Till  after  the  crushing  of  grapes. 

50 


Sonnet  to   Two   Old- Maid   Milliners  51 

"The  true,  toiling  serf  and  the  sailors 

Are  equally  heroes  in  strife 
With  those  in  exalted  positions, 
The  favored  and  honored  in  life/' 

What  is  fame? — Alas,  but  a  bubble 

That  is  swept  from  your  reach  by  a  breath. 

Look  down,  help  the  weak  and  the  suffering, 
And  smooth  out  the  pillow  of  death. 

The  true  poet's  soul  has  felt  anguish, 
And  suffering  has  kindled  his  flame, 

Whose  life  is  privation  and  sorrow, 
And  whose  death  leaves  only  a  name. 


Sonnet   to   Two   Old-Maid   Milliners 

Poor  lonely  old  maids, 

I  desire  not  your  places, 
Your  fashions,  your  follies, 

And  all  your  fine  graces. 
You'd  gladly  exchange 

Both  ribbons  and  laces 
For  kisses  from  lips 

That  have  beards  on  their  faces. 


How   I   Danced 

I  danced  with  old  Squire  Merrill 

When  I  was  a  little  girl. 
It  seemed  so  great  an  honor 

It  set  my  brain  awhirl; 
For  I  was  a  farmer's  daughter, 

And  he  was  a  man  of  the  world. 

With  fine  and  courtly  manner. 
How  well  I  remember  the  time! 

His  son  was  giving  a  party, 
For  he  was  grown  a  man. 

If  I  close  my  eyes  this  minute, 
I  can  see  just  where  they  stand. 

In  the  parlor  of  his  mansion, 
He  and  I  were  to  lead  the  set. 

He  said,  with  a  stately  deference 
That  I  never  can  forget, 

'You  have  your  choice  of  music, 
If  you  wish  to  name  this  dance." 

I  answered  with  an  awkward  smile, 
A  quick  and  startled  glance; 

Said  he,  "We'll  take  the  Money  Musk. 
Just  to  see  how  well  we  feel, 

And  if  you  can't  go  through  it, 
We'll  change  it  to  a  reel." 

52 


Bmv  I  Danced  63 

With  this  they  struck  the  music; 

We  went  whirling  in  and  out. 
When  the  last  long  set  was  ended, 

His  son  gave  a  merry  shout. 
The  squire  came  quickly  forward, 

And  led  me  to  a  seat, 

And  said,  when  bending  o'er  me, 
"Fm  sure  we  can't  be  beat, 
So  I  claim  the  next  cotillion; 

It's  my  last,  last  dance  to-night/' 
I  very  quickly  gave  consent, 

For  it  filled  me  with  delight. 

I  have  since  led  many  cotillions, 

And  danced  in  crowded  halls, 
But  the  dance  I  danced  with  the  courtly  squire 

Fm  sure  holds  over  them  all. 

But  time  has  on  kept  whirling, 

Sometimes  all  out  of  tune; 
We  have  too  long  Decembers, 

And  all  too  short  a  June. 

Fm  now  an  old,  old  woman, 

And  the  courtly  squire  is  dead, 
Yet  in  my  heart  the  echo  lives 

Of  the  kindly  words  he  said. 


The    Fiddle 

Last  night  I  heard  the  fiddle, 
As  it  creaked  beneath  the  bow, 

And  brought  to  life  the  same  old  tunes 
I  danced  by  years  ago. 

Ah!  how  he  thumbed  that  fiddle, 

Till  it  set  my  brain  awhirl! 
And  time  rolled  backward,  till  again 

I  seemed  a  thoughtless  girl. 

The  room  grew  old  and  rustic. 

With  its  low  and  blackened  walls, 

And  I  heard  the  tripping  footsteps 
With  the  music  rise  and  fall. 

And  when  he  went  to  calling 
All  those  figures  to  and  fro, 

I  seemed  to  see  the  very  boys 
And  girls  I  used  to  know. 

The  Fisher's  Hornpipe,  Money  Musk, 

I  asked  him  to  repeat; 
For  it  brought  an  awful  tickling 

To  the  bottoms  of  my  feet. 

54 


Can  One  Be  Robbed  55 

So  when  I  hear  a  fiddle, 

You  would  hardly  think  His  me, 

To  see  me  up  and  dancing, 
When  I  own  to  sixty-three. 


Can   One   Be   Robbed? 

Can  one  be  robbed  of  what  he  ne'er  possessed? 
I  answer,  "Yes,"  to  my  unquiet  quest; 
Who's  orphaned  at  his  birth  is  robbed  of  love, 
And  misses  it  as  nestlings  miss  the  dove. 

Or  an  unwelcome  child,  who  comes  to  earth, 
Is  robbed  of  love  long  ere  he  has  his  birth, 
And  finds  life's  road  a  lone  and  dreary  way, 
For  which  the  gift  of  life  can  scarcely  pay. 

Unwilling  hands  may  soothe  his  infant  breast; 
He'll  miss  the  love  that  prompts  the  fond  caress. 
Unjustly  robbed;  Oh!  dearth  of  childhood's  years; 
Oh!  bitter  stings  and  sobbing  heart-felt  tears! 

Ye  wives  who  eschewed  love  and  married  dross, 
Must  pay  the  price,  your  children  suffer  loss. 
Who's  crippled  at  his  birth,  or  mute,  or  blind, 
May  feel  his  nature's  God,  at  times,  unkind; 


56  Dreaming 

But  greater  is  the  loss  oi  love  than  sense 
To  sensitive  hearts;  alas!  far  more  intense. 
Eternally  the  curse  must  follow  sin, 
As  love  with  happiness  remain  a  twin. 

But  let  us  hope  that  time  will  compensate, 
And  living  prove  a  long  progressive  state; 
That  the  vast  future  of  evolving  years 
Will  prove  that  smiles  can  take  the  place  of  tears. 


Dreaming 

In  flush  of  youth,  when  hopes  are  high, 
Ere  clouds  obscure  the  morning  sky, 
With  sturdy  feet  and  buoyant  tread, 
Our  young  lives  by  ambition  fed, 

We  roam  the  hills  or  search  the  plains, 
Fully  assured  of  worldly  gains, 
And  only  ask  that  time  may  fly; 
For  we  will  sure  old  care  defy. 

The  future,  wreathed  in  sunny  smiles, 
AVith  witchery  the  time  beguiles. 
Oh,  blessed  days  of  only  seeming! 
Oh,  golden  years  of  midday  dreaming! 


My   Vision  57 

What  possibilities  we  conceived! 
What  wondrous  things  we  each  believed! 
Phantoms  they  proved  with  fleeting  youth; 
Your  love  remains  a  living  truth. 

Of  all  life's  joys  I  e'er  shall  know, 
This  follows  me  where'er  I  go, 
And  comes  again,  forever  new, 
Fresh  as  the  flowers  with  morning  dew. 

I  sometimes  mourn  o'er  dreary  ways, 
Till  memory  brings  those  blissful  days; 
Then  living  only  is  a  seeming, 
And  I  am  happy  in  my  dreaming. 


My   Vision 

In  sadness  I  murmured  all  through  the  long  day, 
And  grieved  that  my  darling  was  taken  away. 
I  asked,  almost  wildly,  "Why  could  he  not  stay 
To  cheer  and  to  brighten  my  wearisome  way?" 

And  thus  through  the  long  day  I  murmured  and 

wept, 

Till  nature,  o'erwearied,  gave  way,  and  I  slept. 
Then  came  to  my  vision  a  beautiful  scene; 
The  site  was  a  landscape  that  bordered  a  stream. 


58  My   Vision 

But  out  on  the  landscape  confusion  was  spread, — 
The  lives  of  the  living,  the  graves  of  the  dead; 
Helpless  infants  were  there,  with  wild,  wailing  cries; 
The  feeble,  the  aged,  I  heard  their  deep  sighs. 

And  eager  youths  grasped  at  the  foam  of  the  tide, 
Unheeding  the  chasm  that  yawned  at  their  side; 
While  men  much  too  early  for  old  father  Time 
Came,  bowed  down  by  sorrow,  by  care,  or  by  crime. 

And  pale,  wasted  women,  o'erburdened  by  care, 
Each  jostled  the  other — the  throng  was  all  there. 
"This  scene  of  confusion,  of  bustle  and  strife, 
Is  earth's  panorama  and  journey  of  life." 

Thus  sung  a  sweet  voice,  seeming  close  at  my  side; 
I  searched,  and  soon  found  it  came  over  the  tide. 
And  thus  as  I  wondered  and  waited  to  see, 
The  minstrel  arose,  and  came  over  to  me. 

The  face  of  an  angel  could  not  be  more  fair; 
That  calm,  holy  look  no  mortal  could  wear. 
I  knew  that  my  darling  had  come  to  me  now, 
With  the  heaven-born  peace  beaming  forth  from  his 
brow. 

Smiling  sweetly,  he  said,  "Now  look  at  your  child; 
Can  you  wish  I  were  back  on  the  landscape  wild?" 


The  Childless  Mother  59 

I  gazed  at  the  vision,  so  fair  and  so  mild, 

And  answered,  "No,  darling;  oh!  no,  my  sweet  child." 

"Oh!  now,  my  dear  mother,  when  I  float  away, 
Remember  I  came  here  to  brighten  your  stay." 
Thus  saying,  the  dear  one  glided  over  the  stream, 
But  long  could  I  trace  there  a  lingering  gleam. 

Oh!  may  the  gleam  brighten  this  sad  life  of  mine, 
And  strengthen  me  on  through  the  journey  of  time. 
Then  came  this  sweet  message,  just  wafted  to  me, 
"Remember  your  blindness;  God  only  can  see." 


The   Childless   Mother 

Well  may  a  childless  mother  weep, 
With  sobs  of  anguish,  low  and  deep, 
When  death  calls  all  her  loved  ones  home, 
And  leaves  her  here,  indeed  alone. 

Oh!  stricken  heart,  so  blindly  led, 
So  vainly  seeking  beauteous  dead, 
Is  there  no  helper?  there  no  God? 
No  light  beyond  this  senseless  sod? 

No  balm  or  cure  for  human  woe, 
Oh,  where  can  human  reason  go? 
Death  has,  at  least,  one  deathless  charm, — 
They've  passed  beyond  all  mortal  harm. 


60  The  Childless  Mother 


And  never  more  they'll  feel  the  woe 

Of  erring,  weak  ones  here  below. 

Oh!  think  of  those  condemned  through  time, 

Or  linked  with  those  all  steeped  in  crime. 

'Twere  easier  far  to  let  them  go, 
Than  see  them  plodding  thus  below. 
Though  childless,  who  would  call  them  back, 
And  see  them  bound  to  torture's  rack? 

Or  sunken  to  the  depths  of  shame, 
Of  wearing  here  a  blighted  name? 
Oh!  who  would  court  the  cruel  fate 
Of  seeing  love  all  turn  to  hate? 

For  death  is  not  the  worst  of  ills; 

It  never  once  affection  kills. 

Why  question,  with  our  human  sight, 

The  wisdom  of  the  Infinite; 

Or  dare  to  lengthen  out  the  span 

That  is  allotted  here  to  man? 


Grief 

The  sky  is  all  shadowed,  all  nature's  in  gloom, 
The  silence  of  midnight  pervades  my  low  room; 
I  hear  the  soft  wind  as  it  sighs  through  the  dell, 
With  a  cadence  of  grief  which  words  can  not  tell. 
It  breathes  through  my  soul  a  refrain  like  its  own, 
While  from  my  pale  lips  escapes  a  low  moan. 

For  my  poor  heart,  overcharged,  having  long  sought 

relief, 

Has  fled  for  one  hour  to  indulge  in  its  grief. 
I've  battled  it  long,  long  begged  it  desist, 
But  it  comes  with  a  power  I  can  not  resist; 
It  has  beat  down  the  barriers  I  builded  so  high, 
And  the  guards  at  the  portals  now  prostrated  lie. 

Hope  is  crushed,  joy  dead,  and  my  soul  draped  in 

gloom; 

But  no  one  must  know  that  my  heart  holds  a  tomb; 
For  they  must  arise,  like  a  Phoenix,  at  dawn, 
Their  semblance,  at  least,  o'er  the  sepulcher  drawn. 
"Pis  vain,  though  at  present  I  bid  it  be  still; 
It  sets  at  defiance  my  governing  will. 

And  I  sit  here  in  tears,  as  if  weeping  had  power 
To  wash  away  blighting  and  bring  back  the  flowers. 
The  few  that  bloomed  bright  in  the  pathway  I  trod 
Are  gathered  long  since  in  the  gardens  of  God. 

61 


62  Sonnet  for  a   Young  Lady's  Album 

7Tis  well  that  the  sky  is  overshadowed  and  gray; 
Fd  rather  have  shadows  than  sunshine  to-day; 

For  Tingenial  glitter  its  keen  arrows  sends, 

Like  gazes  of  strangers  at  funerals  of  friends. 

I  fancy  that  nature,  with  sobbing  and  tears, 

Has  wept  with  her  children  these  numberless  years; 

And  undefined  sympathy  seems  trailing  therein, 

As  the  curse  followed  swift  in  the  footsteps  of  sin. 

In  hours  such  as  these,  grant  power  from  above, 

Dispel  the  dark  clouds  with  undying  love; 

Oh!  raise  up  the  spirit  to  communion  with  Thee, 

For,  Father,  the  burden  seems  heavy  to  me. 

I  murmur,  alas!  at  our  dim  human  sight, 

While  humbly  I  bow  to  acknowledge  Thy  might. 


Sonnet   for  a   Young   Lady's   Album 

When  the  fingers  of  Time 

Turn  the  pages  of  life 
With  rapid,  changing  fleetness, 

May  you  gather  from  its  pages,  rife, 
The  treasures  of  its  completeness. 


Questioning 

When  pain  clings  so  closely  that  question  we  must, 
Is  dying  all  death?  must  we  pass  into  dust? 
When  earth's  light  grows  dim,  and  the  pulse  ebbs 

away, 
Will  nothing  be  left  but  cold,  passionless  clay? 

Oh,  that  something  beyond  would  its  radiance  lend, 
Assuring  poor  mortals  the  grave's  not  the  end! 
These  shadows  of  darkness  relentlessly  fall: 
Each  moment  of  time  brings  the  deep  sable  pall, 

Till  all  of  earth's  children  are  powerless  to  save, 
And  cry,  "Hath  Almighty  a  power  o'er  the  grave?" 
All  restlessly  seeking  the  one  hidden  goal, 
All  question  alike  the  life  of  the  soul. 

The  whispers  are  borne  on  the  unanswering  breeze, 
Eeverberating  ever  are  questions  like  these: 
"Shall  I  pass  forever  from  under  the  rod? 
My  soul  feel  forever  the  sunshine  of  God? 

"Will  the  dear  long  departed  come  close  to  the  shore, 
And  smile  a  glad  welcome,  and  beckon  me  o'er? 
Will  the  spirit,  untrammeled,  delight  in  its  power, 
Unfold  with  new  beauty,  like  germs  of  a  flower? 

63 


64  There  Is  No  Death 

"When  friends  that  have  loved  me  through  sunshine 

and  gloom 

Are  gathered  around  in  the  death-shaded  room, 
Will  the  spirit  of  mercy  come  down  in  its  might, 
And  bear  me  aloft  on  its  pinions  of  light? 

"Or  will  life,  with  its  cares,  its  ceaseless  commotion, 
Close  over  my  grave,  like  the  waves  of  the  ocean, 
Till  the  limitless  future  and  far-reaching  past, 
Together,  relentless,  are  swept  from  my  grasp?" 

Doubt  whispers,  "It  may  be."     It  may  be;  and  yet 
I'd  not  be  forgotten;  I  would  not  forget. 
Oh!  Father,  dear  Father,  give  light  from  above, 
Assuring  poor  mortals  of  infinite  love. 


There    Is    No   Death 

"The  old,  deserted  mansion,  built  of  clay, 
Is  silent  now,  and  ready  to  be  borne  away." 
Thus  mourned  the  dear  ones,  as,  with  softened  tread. 
They  came  to  look  once  more  upon  the  silent  dead. 

"Oh!  ruthless,  unrelenting  death,"  they  cried, 
"Thou  hast  our  all,  yet  ne'er  art  satisfied. 
Why  make  them  stark  and  dumb?  they  can  not  hear, 
Or  feel  our  touch,  or  know  when  we  are  near. 


There  Is  No  Death  65 

Oh!  pitiless,  Oh!  cruel  death/'  they  cried, 

"Is  there  no  life,  no  light,  upon  the  other  side?" 

*         :Ic         *         *         * 

By  accident  I  lost  the  subtle  power  of  breath, 
And  passed  into  that  state  which  mortals  here  call 
death. 

There  was  for  me  no  struggle,  no  sickening  sight, 
For  death  had  come,  as  one  snuffs  out  a  light; 
Though    dread,   incomprehensible    is   death   in   any 

light, 
Beside  decrepit  helplessness  'tis  a  far  more  beauteous 

sight. 

Of  every  mortal  sense  I  was  bereft, 
And  yet   far  greater   powers   than   all   I  now   pos 
sessed, — 

Sweet,  sacred  gift  we  miscall  intuition; 
It's  only  truly 'learned  on  the  border-land  transition. 

No  finite  mind  can  comprehend,  or  hope  to  under 
stand, 

The  beauties  of  immortal  life  within  the  spirit-land, 

As  by  power  of  single  thought  I  glided  o'er  land  and 
sea, 

Although  the  power  of  human  touch  had  gone  far, 
far  from  me. 


66  Thine  Eyes 


Soft  as  the  summer  sunlight  falls  upon  the  waters, 
Or  the  love  of  human  mothers  for  their  daughters, 
Or  grateful  sleep  falls  o'er  the  wearied  senses, 
Thus  came  the  greater  gifts  which  death  alone  dis 
penses. 
We  know  no  more  of  discord;  that  is  left  with  mortal 

clay; 

And  the  presence  of  our  loved  ones  brightens  all  our 
heavenly  way. 


Thine    Eyes 

Thine  eyes  are  ever  fond  and  tender, 
With  love-light  so  trusting  and  true, 

Outvying  the  stars  in  their  splendor, 

More  radiant  than  morn's  sparkling  dew. 

Chorus — 

I  own  their  full  power  to  enthrall  me; 

You  may  smile,  you  may  fret,  or  may  sigh, 
If  e'er  I  acknowledge  I'm  vanquished, 

'Twill  be  by  the  light  of  your  eye. 

Oh!  they  hold  more  than  depth  of  the  ocean, 

By  having  full  power  to  impart 
The  silent,  but  living  emotions 

That  stir  in  the  realm  of  your  heart. 
Chorus — 


Moving  Pictures  67 

When  troubled,  they  follow  through  daylight, 

With  restless,  unspeakable  woe, 
Invading  the  silence  of  midnight, 

And  haunting  me  where'er  I  go. 
Chorus — 

When  joyous  and  hopeful  and  happy, 

Their  magical  powers  give  delight, 
Till  the  boys  about  town  say  Fin  sappy, 

Fm  longing  so  much  for  their  sight. 
Chorus — 

Moving    Pictures 

If  I  could  paint  upon  the  air, 
Fd  show  you  scenes,  both  dark  and   fair. 
The  first  should  be  a  country  scene, 
Of  children  sporting  on  the  green. 

You'd  almost  hear  their  shouts  of  glee, 
I'd  bring  them  out  so  forcibly; 
You'd  see  their  kites  all  flying  high, 
And  larger  boys  should  play  "I  spy."' 

Some  girl  should  dance  as  May-day  queen, 
As  happy  as  a  midday  dream. 
These  lovely  sights  would  youth  re-new, 
While  older  eyes  these  scenes  review. 


68  Moving   Pictures 

I'd  change  the  scene,  and  quickly  then 
Would  take  you  to  the  pauper's  den; 
Such  miseries  I  would  portray, 
You'd  quickly  turn  the  other  way. 

But  it  would  surely  move  your  heart, 
Cause  tears  to  eyelids  softly  start, 
To  see  these  suffering  ones  of  earth, 
Demented  from  their  very  birth. 

From  such  a  scene  in  sorry  plight, 
You'd  calmly  view  a  broad  street  fight; 
But  you  would  gladly  come  with  me 
To  happier  homes  of  harmony, 

There  to  behold  the  loving  wife, 

The  center  of  an  honored  life, 

Who,  with  noble  husband,  proud  and  grand, 

In  loving  words  gives  each  command. 

Here  happy  children  kindly  meet, 
And  gladly  all  their  joys  repeat. 
Then,  just  for  contrast,  Fd  unfold 
The  habitation  of  a  scold, 

Whose  nodding  head  and  shaking  fist, 
And  words  made  strong  with  emphasis, 
Have  kept  in  practice  from  a  girl, 
And  turned  her  husband  to  a  churl. 


Moving   Pictures  69 

She  still  insists  it  is  his  dues,, 
And  gives  her  good  man  fits  of  blues; 
Her  children  rise  and  run  away, 
And  longer  we'll  not  wish  to  stay. 

Sure,  'tis  a  picture  in  which  no  art 
Can  bring  to  view  the  saddest  part. 
Then,  as  kaleidoscopes  will  turn, 
I'll  take  you  where  the  camp-fires  burn, 

And  show  you  soldiers  as  they  stand, 
Their  drilling  and  their  marching  grand; 
You'd  see  each  column  move  along, 
Like  measures  of  a  written  song; 

You'd  see  them  wheel  from  left  to  right. 
Oh!  is  not  this  a  stirring  sight? 
Just  see  their  glittering  uniforms, 
Which  well  their  persons  doth  adorn! 

From  canteens  now  they  sip  their  drams, 

But  all  their  battles  shall  be  shams; 

And  after  all  this  show  and  play, 

You'd   see   them  come  and   draw   their  pay. 

You'd  see  their  quick  and  buoyant  tread, 
And  almost  hear  what  each  man  said. 
I'd  paint  this  scene  so  very  fair 
No  other  picture  could  compare. 


70  Moving  Pictures 

For  I  would  put  far,  far  away 
The  pallet  where  the  wounded  lay; 
So  while  you  looked  you'd  understand 
That  man  had  learned  this  great  command 

That  evermore  all  strife  be  stilled, 
And  nevermore  shall  man  be  killed; 
And  the  picture  be  like  a  passing  play, 
From  which  you'd  tire  and  turn  away. 

And  turning,  could  not  fail  to  see 
The  triumph  of  the  toiling  free; 
For  here  behold  where  want  is  dead 
And  starving  multitudes  are  fed. 

Oh!  is  not  this  a  grander  sight 
Than  ever  canvas  brought  to  light? 
If  I  could  well  this  scene  portray, 
Its  memory  would  live  on  for  aye. 

Then  would  I  paint  the  morning  light 
As  it  dispels  the  darksome  night; 
A  lovely  scene  Fd  bring  to  view, 
And,  best  of  all,  it  should  be  true. 

You'd  hear  the  murmuring  streamlet  flow. 
For  I  would  trace  it  to  and  fro 
With  such  marvelous  gift  of  tracery 
That  he  who  looked  would,  wondering,  see, 


Moving  Pictures  71 

Whatever  country  lie  doth  own, 
The  nearest  brook  to  childhood's  home. 
Its  witchery  would  bid  age  retreat, 
And  old-time  joys  would  all  repeat. 

Then,  close  beside  the  murmuring  stream., 
He'd  list  again  to  love's  sweet  dream; 
He'd  see  the  maid  and  lover  meet, 
And  hear  their  voices,  low  and  sweet; 

He'd  catch  the  gleam  of  loving  eye, 
And  waking  say,  "Oh!  one  was  I." 
Thus,  as  I'd  paint,  you  would  behold, 
And  proclaim  me  an  artist  bold; 

For  these  sweet  pictures,  all  in  one, 
Would  show  what  wonders  love  has  done, 
And  teach  us  all  to  love  the  more, 
While  toilsome  days  are  passing  o'er. 

And  then  for  chidings  look  to  self, 
For  little  faults  creep  in  by  stealth, 
Through  all  the  journeyings  and  strife 
Of  every  human  being's  life. 

Where  now  are  groupings  dark  as  night 
There  should  be  scenes  of  beauteous  light. 
Which,  like  Jacob's  ladder  built  in  cloud, 
Speak  to  the  inner  sense  aloud; 


72  The  Open   Well 

Giving  to  all  a  keen  delight, 
While  teaching  us  to  live  aright. 
Love  is  the  choicest  gift  of  earth, 
The  only  treasure  of  priceless  worth, 


The   Open   Well 

Fve   been   out   to   grandpa's,   and   all   through   the 

hay-mows; 
Fve  searched  through  the  low  eaves,  where  the 

barn  swallows  dwell; 
Fve  romped  through  the  meadow  and  down  through 

the  wild-wood; 
And  heard  all  the  stories  that  Aunt  Hannah  tells. 

I  asked  if  she  knew  'bout  that  "old,  oaken  bucket," 

The  "iron-bound  bucket,"  that  once  hung  in  the 

well. 
She  said,  "  'Tis  the  sweetest,  the  dearest  old  story 

That  ever  with  music  from  human  lips  fell; 
But  there  is  a  shade  which  the  painter  and  poet, 

If  he  were  a  woman,  he  surely  would  tell, 
Though  it  might  mar  the  picture,  and  thus  spoil  the 
music, — 

He'd  speak  of  the  faults  of  that  old,  open  well. 


The  Open   Well  73 

He'd  tell  how  old  puss  and  her  kittens  got  drowned 

('Twas  quite  unbeknown  to  us  for  a  spell, 
Till  the  water  grew  foul,  and  we  thought  it  was 

poisoned; 

'Twas  not  fit  to  he  used,  we  found  out  hy  the 
smell). 

Then  we  fussed  and  we  fumed  for  these  modern  im 
provements, 

And  called  it  hard  labor  to  draw  from  the  well 
With  "the  old,  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket,  that  hung  in  the  well." 

When  alone  one  must  cook  and  brew  for  the  work 
men, 
Do  out  the  week's  washing  for  the  household,  as 

well, 

Then  wait  on  the  door-bell,  and  tend  to  the  baby 
(I've  done  it  myself,  and  I  surely  can  tell). 

There  is  not  much  to  sigh  for,  not  very  much  in  it, 
This  drawing  the  water  from  out  the  old  well; 

For  overwrought  muscles  bring  painful  emotions, 
And  mar  the  beauty  of  which  poets  can  tell. 

If  the  bucket  still  swung  at  the  well,  you  would 
pass  it, 


74  The  Statue  of  Memory 

And   drink   of  the  water  that  runs  through  the 

faucet; 
You'd  mourn  not,  nor  sigh,  for  the  days  that  are 

olden, 
But  rather  would  own  that  the  present  is  golden. 

Yet  all  do  agree  'tis  the  sweetest  old  story 
^That  ever  with  music  from  human  lips  fell, 
'Rout    that    "old,    oaken    bucket,    the    iron-bound 

bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  that  hung  in  the  well." 


The    Statue    of   Memory 

In  each  heart  is  a  secret  chamber 

Where  the  statue  of  Memory  stands, 

On  which  golden  letters  are  burnished 
And  wrought  by  tireless  hands. 

All  woven  around  are  inscriptions, 

In  varying  light  and  shade, 
Of  daring,  delightful  achievements, 

Deep  cuts  of  our  blunderings  made. 

Here  Cupid  brings  garlands  of  roses, 
To  embellish  the  neck  of  a  dove; 

Joy  and  Innocence  (sweetest  of  cherubs) 
Have  enshrined  it  the  symbol  of  love. 


The  Statue  of  Memory  75 

With  secret  and  untiring  labor, 

Which  time  can  never  efface, 
So  fine  and  intricately  woven 

That  only  your  vision  can  trace, 

Hope  modestly  brings  some  bright  links 
For  the  beak  of  this  beautiful  bird. 

And  smiles  o'er  her  unfinished  labor 

With  each  low  and  sweet-whispered  word, 

How  royally  regal  her  person! 

How  brilliant  and  sparkling  her  eye! 
She  faithfully  toils  on  with  patience. 

Though  toils,  alas!  with  a  sigh. 

Faith  works  more  slowly,  till  weary 

She   tries  many  wonderful  arts, 
Quite  often   dissembling  unwisely, 

And  blindly  concealing  some  parts, 

Till  Sorrow  and  Anger  together 
Arise  and  put  out  the  bird's  eyes. 

She  opens  her  beak  in  her  anguish, 
With  wild  and  low,  plaintive  cries. 

Those  beautiful  links  now  are  worthless. 

All  scattered  and  broken  in  twain; 
And  Despair  comes,  creeping  in  slowly, 

And  looks  in  her  eyes  for  the  pain. 


California 

Joy  wrathfully  scans  the  deep  injury,, 
Faith  murmurs  a  hasty  good-by^ 

Then  seeking  the  dove  in  her  anguish, 
Together  they  suffer  and  die. 

We  smile  while  we  carry  their  coffins — 
The  world  is  what  we  most  dread — 

And  the  statue  of  Memory  grows  heavy 
With  beautiful,  unburied  dead. 


California 

Bead  at  the   Breaking   of  the   Ground    for    the    Midwinter 
Fair  Held   in   San   Francisco,    Cal.,    in   1894 

California,  bright  gem  by  the  ocean, 

Grand  laurels  are  ever  for  thee, 
To  bear  to  the  courts  of  all  nations, 

Like  splendor  of  sunset  to  sea. 

Your  achievements  are  watched  from  all  quarters. 
And  welcomed  with  joy  and  surprise; 

The  people  look  up  to  your  statesmen 
For  counsel  and  words  of  the  wise. 

Your  statesmen  are  noble  and  polished, 

Your  women  are  fair  and  refined, 
And  branches  of  olives  grow  sturdy, 

With  sparklingly-brilliant  young  minds. 


California  77 

Your  laborers  all  have  abundance, 
And  know  not  extreme  heat  or  cold; 

They  are  blessed  with  a  large  sense  of  comfort, 
Far  better  than  silver  or  gold. 

When  we  cross  the  Sierras  at  midnight, 

We  lose  the  old  secular  year, 
And  never  again  find  December, 

October,  and  June  make  our  year.   * 

The  name  Golden  Gate  seems  befitting 

A  harbor  so  tranquil  and  fair, 
To  a  land  filled  with  tropical  wonders; 

A  wish  half  expressed  and  ;tis  there. 

Your  beauty  and  grandeur  surpasses 

The  power  of  all  language  to  tell, 
Enchanting,  delighting,  bewitching, 

As  with  a  magical  spell. 

Your  vast  sources  of  wealth  are  unnumbered, 

And  as  little  dreamed,  it  may  be, 
As  the  mariner  sailing  the  ocean 

Little  guesses  the  depth  of  the  sea. 

Rich  minerals  poured  into  your  treasury 
Till  the  world  looked  on  quite  amazed; 

All  languages  mixed  in  the  Babel 
When  sounding  a  chorus  of  praise. 


8  California 

Then  flocked  from  all  climes  and  all  countries 
The  sturdy,  the  valiant,  and  true; 

While  under  your  banner  of  freedom 
Our  forefathers3  precepts  renew. 

Let  your  sons  and  your  daughters  accomplish 
High,  moral,  and  unselfish  deeds, 

Till  unborn  generations  shall  gather 
Rich  fruits  from  your  sowing  of  seeds. 

Don't  sigh  o'er  the  days  that  have  vanished, 
Nor  mourn  for  the  heroes  all  dead, 

But  point  to  the  men  by  whose  labor 
The  suffering  nations  are  fed. 

Then  cut  the  deep  valleys  and  hillsides 

Into  homes  for  the  toiling  free, 
Till  the  air  reverberates  with  music 

From  a  chorus  of  state  jubilee. 

Then  hail  ye,  All  honor  to  Labor, 

With  Capital  close  by  its  side. 
Let  "Peace"  be  forever  your  watchword, 
"California,"  forever  your  pride. 


Ode    for    the    Opening    Exercises 
of   the   Midwinter   Fair 

(Held  in  San  Francisco,  189 It) 

Oh!    welcome,    thrice    welcome,    to    this    "City    of 

Palms/' 

Where  nature  has  lavished  such  bountiful  charms. 
Unfurl  wide  the  banners,  open  gateway  and  door, 
To  welcome  with  honor  eighteen-ninety-four. 

A  centennial  century,  stark  on  its  bier, 

Has  vanished  forever;  its  triumphs  are  here; 

While   long   strides   of   progress,   from   stage    on   to 

stage, 
Have  brought  us  triumphant  this  magical  age. 

Two  can  talk  through  a  telephone  just  for  two  bits, 
Till  one  or  the  other  has  exhausted  his  wits. 
They  do  away  space  with  the  telegraph  wire, 
By  sending  a  message  where'er  they  desire. 

Oh!  one  can  not  mention  the  numerous  ways, 
But  who  would  e'er  sigh  for  his  grandfather's  days? 
The  crown  of  all  blessings  is  peace  and  good-will; 
A  dead,  stagnant  peace,  isn't  down  on  the  bill. 

But  born  of  high  purpose  and  power  to  achieve, 
What    can   hands   not    accomplish    that   heads    can 
conceive? 


79 


80  To  the  Native  Daughters 

Though  skeptics  all  said  it  was  written  on  air; 
We  never  should  witness  this  Midwinter  Fair. 

But,  thanks  to  all  those  who  have  worked  with  their 

wills, 
And  thanks  to   the  heroes  who   tapped  their  own 

tills, 

'Tis  the  marvel  of  marvels  to  civilized  nations; 
Its   like's   not   been  known   since   the   world's   first 

creation. 
So  to  time  and  these  people,  the  rich,  great, -and 

small, 

With  pleasure  and  honor  we  welcome  you  all. 
Where  this  Midwinter  Fair  and  its  praises  are  sung, 
May  you  hear  through  its  chorus  the  name  of  "De 

Young." 


To   the   Native   Daughters 

California's  fair  daughters,  I  bow  to  your  shrine; 
Accept  with  indulgence  this  tribute  of  mine, 
Most  favored  of  all  upon'  this  round  earth, 
To  claim  this  fair  state  as  the  land  of  your  birth. 

Eare  tropical  fruits  in  abundance  are  here; 
Sweet-scented  roses  bloom  all  through  the  )rear. 
And  where  choice  fruits  of  nature  profusely  abound, 
The  loveliest  women  are  sure  to  be  found. 


A    Tribute  to   Ceres  81 

You  were  cradled  in  comfort,,  shielded  from  harm; 
While  witchery  wpve  each  such  magical  charm 
That  kings  are  not  honored  more  proudly  than  he, 
In  being  a  parent  to  daughters  like  thee. 

You  were  nurtured  with  culture,  were  guarded  with 

care; 

AYhile  nature  has  lavished  a  bountiful  share, — 
With  charms  has  bedecked  you,  so  grandly  complete, 
From  the  crowns  of  your  heads  to  the  soles  of  your 

feet, 

That  I  ask  here  in  wonder,  "Where  under  the  sun 
AVill  you  find  fitting  mates  with  the  proud  native 

sons?" 

Any  man  of  high  honor  who  looks  for  his  peer 
Must  acknowledge  at  once  he  finds  she  is  here. 

Far  above  rubies,  rare  diamonds,  and  pearls, 
The  wealth  of  our  lives  is  the  smiles  of  our  girls. 


A   Tribute   to    Ceres 

Dear  Ceres,  fair  goddess  of  produce  and  corn, 
Your  scepter  has  ruled  since  creation's  first  morn, 
With  power  more  despotic  than  tyrant's  or  king's. 
Your  frown  on  an  empire  keen  suffering  brings; 


82  A    Tribute  to   Ceres 

No  station  on  earth  is  exempt  from  your  scorn, 
And  subjects  pay  tribute  as  quickly  as  born. 

"Willing  tribute  forever  and  ever/'  they  cry. 
While  centuries  roll  on,  theii  languish  and  die, 
You  reign  on  in  triumph  when  their  courses  are  run, 
As  regally  fair  as  first  kissed  by  the  sun. 
Fair  Flora,  sweet  goddess  in  gorgeous  array, 
Outshines  you  in  beauty  a  brief,  happy  day, 

Till  Time  gets  enamored,  the  blundering  old  churl, 
Like  a  man  past  his  prime  with  a  sweet,  laughing 

girl. 

Soon  faded  and  worn,  she  then  seeks  your  aid, 
When  you  and  Pomona  both  comfort  the  maid. 
Then  Pomona  holds  carnival  a  part  of  each  year, 
But  she,  too,  would  perish  if  you  were  not  near. 

Endowed  by  the  Deity,  'tis  yours  to  command; 
You  nurture  all  life  when  you  smile  o'er  the  land, 
So  while  these  fair  goddesses  visit  our  earth, 
Your  constancy  proves  your  superior  worth. 


Toast   to    Pomona 

To  all  the  fair  Pomonas  throughout  this  golden  state, 
You  ask  me  here  to  give  a  toast,  and  so  I  bow  to  fate. 


To  all  the  fair  Pomonas  throughout  this  sunny  land, 
Who  wield  the  magic  scepter  with  a  fair  and  lavish 

hand, 
No  matter  what  the  multitude,  or  when  they  dine, 

or  where, 
She'll   give   you   all   a   love-feast,   by   taking   it   in 

pears  (pairs). 

*         *         *         *         * 

There!   I   knew   I    could   not   make   a   toast;   it   is 

scorched  or  underdone, 
And  just  turns  out  (I  knew  it  would)  a  very  simple 

pun. 

Truthfulness 

( Written  for  a  small  boy) 

You  can  guess  at  my  age 
When  you  look  at  my  size, 

But  for  tracing  the  truth 
You  must  look  in  my  eyes. 


84  Truthfulness 

I  dwell  in  two  kingdoms, 
Whose  division  between 

Is  formed  by  the  feelings, 
And  hard  to  be  seen. 

It  is  a  hard  matter 
To  keep  them  apart, 

They're  being  united 
So  close  to  my  heart. 

While  one  is  called  "Evil/' 
And  one  is  called  "Good/' 

I  stayed  in  the  better 
All  through  babyhood. 

Once,  when  I  grew  older, 

I  told  wicked  lies. 
Up  came  a  good  fairy 

And  winked  through  my  eyes. 

Then  mama  looked  down 
Through  my  tears,  and  saw 

How  wicked  I  was 

In  breaking  God's  law; 

Then  told  me  how  badly 
She  suffered  beside, 

Then  opened  her  arms, 
And  together  we  cried. 


Courage  85 


I  resolved  at  that  moment 
To  become  a  good  man., 

To  tell  the  whole  truth; 
And  I  know  that  I  can. 


Courage 

You  ask  if  I  have  courage; 

That  I  must  wait  to  see; 
If  one  must  fight  to  prove  it, 

You  need  not  count  on  me. 

If  one  must  run  to  danger 

To  show  that  he  is  brave, 
I  think  the  better  action 

Is  my  precious  self  to  save. 

But  if  my  little  playmates 

Ask  me  to  act  or  tell  a  lie, 
It  takes  a  bit  of  courage 

Their  wishes  to  deny. 

Folks  used  to  think  the  hoe  and  plow 
Developed  muscle  .for  the  fool; 

When  one  had  wit  and  courage, 
The  sword  or  musket  was  the  tool. 


86  Grandpa?  s   Glasses 

The   times   are   always   changing, 
Yet  courage  is  ever  the  same; 

But  many  a  fainting  hero  dies, 

And  the  world  knows  not  his  name. 

When  the  poor  and  weak  and  helpless 
Are  abused  within  my  sight, 

There  comes  a  time  for  action, 
And  Fm  brave  enough  to  fight. 


Grandpa's    Glasses 

I  donned  my  grandpa's  glasses  when  I  was  a  little 

child, 
And  peered  above  their  golden  rims.     Ah!  how  my 

mother  smiled 
When  gently  she  removed  them!     I  can  hear  just 

what  she  said: 
"They  are  much  too  wise  for  little  eyes  and  such  a 

curly  head." 

I  put  them  on  again  at  ten,  with  jacket  and  top 

boots, 
And  thought  myself  a  little  man;  the  rest  were  silly 

coots. 
I  looked  above  the  rims  again,  and  saw  my  mother 

frown, 
While  sternly  she  commanded  me  to  lay  those  glasses 

down. 


Grandpa's   Glasses  87 

I  tried  them  on  at  twenty;  looked  above,  beneath, 

and  through, 
And  thought  the  world   enchanting,   with   nothing 

much  to  do. 
But  mother  said,  "Don't  loiter  round;  there's  work, 

as  well  as  play; 
So  just  get  in  and  rustle;  it's  much  the  better  way." 

I  tried  them  on  at  thirty;  everything  was  in  a  whirl, 
For  everywhere,  where'er  I  looked,  I  saw  some  pretty 

girl. 
I  looked  no  more  for  mother's  face;  it  had  vanished 

from  my  sight, 
And  I  could  never  see  it  more,  except  in  dreams  of 

night. 

I  put  them  on  at  forty;  things  were  mixed  and  truly 
strange; 

I  just  began  to  realize  how  much  of  life  is  change. 

I  put  them  on,  I  took  them  off,  was  never  quite  con 
tent, 

So  much  of  toil,  so  much  of  loss,  so  much  of  life 
misspent. 

I  press  them  on  at  fifty;  everything  looks  very  plain, 
And  life  seems  full  and  pleasing,  as  I  live  it  o'er 

again. 

If  I  should  live  till  sixty — it's  not  so  very  far — 
Fll  put  on  these  old  glasses,  and  look  like  my  own 

grandpa. 


Discontent 

My  tasks  were  most  distasteful; 

I  murmured  as  I  toiled,, 
And  through  careless  inattention 

Many  were  the  things  I  spoiled. 

I  looked  on  other's  triumphs, 
Thinking  they  were  easy  found; 

While  low  and  menial  labor 

Held  me  in  its  ceaseless  round. 

I  longed  for  more  of  pleasure, 

I  sighed  for  more  of  books, 
And  despised  the  man  above  ground 

Who  first  invented  cooks. 

I  was  assailed,  both  night  and  morning, 

By  a  noisy,  hungry  crowd, 
Who  shouted  forth  my  praises 

In  chorus  long  and  loud. 

But  this  I  took  for  granted, 

As  every  toiler's  part; 
For  none  had  ever  dared  to  class 

Fine  cooking  as  an  art. 


Taught  by  the  Fairies  89 

It  was  thought  to  be  essential, 

And  an  every-day  affair, 
And  every  household  mother 

Found  her  full,  allotted  share. 

But  I  have  learned  my  lesson; 

Suffering  teaches  more  than  books; 
The  most  exalted  labor 

Is  done  by  household  cooks. 

Let  every  toiling  mother  learn, 

While  there's  empty  mouths  to  fill, 

To  do  her  work  with  pleasure, 
Ere  by  death  their  lips  are  stilled. 


Taught   by   the    Fairies 

Wearied  £nd  worn,  and  at  war  with  fate, 
I  sank  to  rest  in  a  wretched  state; 
For  the  day  had  passed  with  toil  and  pain, 
For  coveted  blessings  I  could  not  gain. 
"Why  must  I  toil  and  never  attain?" 
I  fretfully  murmured  again  and  again. 


Baffled  and  hedged  at  every  turn, 

My  heart  with  indignation  burned. 

Why  was  I  born  this  helpless  thing, 

When  even  a  bird  has  its  strength  of  wing, 


90  Taught  by  the  Fairies 

Can  fly  unfettered  from  shore  to  shore? 
Oh!  what  do  we  know  of  the  evermore? 

Thus,  worn  and  weary,  I  sank  in  sleep, 

Where  a  better  power  may  its  vigil  keep; 

And  I  was  borne  by  a  fitful  dream 

Along  the  banks  of  a  turbulent  stream, 

Till  it  broadened  out  o'er  a  vast  expanse, 

Where  the  soft  sea  waves  in  the  sunshine  danced. 

There,  wildly  tossed  on  the  seething  waves, 
Were  wretched  things  from  their  unknown  graves; 
But  sprites  and  fairies  would  gather  the  things, 
And  quickly  transform  them  to  beautiful  rings, 
Or  sheaves  of  wheat,  or  garlands  bright, 
Or  harps  of  gold,  with  strange,  new  light. 

I  felt  their  meaning,  though  I  heard  no  tone, 
"Go  gather  the  things,  and  weave  your  own." 
"I  can  gather  the  wretched  things,"  I  said, 
"But  in  my  fingers  they  all  seem  dead." 
"Work  with  a  will;  there  is  a  power 
That  will  come  to  you  in  every  hour. 
But  watch  and  work  and  seek  perfection, 
For  many  a  piece  will  need  correction." 
They  left  me  there,  within  the  reach 
Of  all  those  shreds  upon  the  beach. 
So  now  I  work,  with  joy  I  sing, 
Content  and  happy,  for  time  must  bring 


Pledge  to  the  Three   Graces  91 

The  coveted  blessings  I  shall  attain, 

And  love  and  triumph  with  me  remain. 

So  when  my  heart  makes  bitter  moan, 

Or,  sad  and  lonely,  I  walk  alone, 

My  fancy  goes  to  that  unknown  sea, 

And  I  review  the  lesson  the  fairies  taught  me. 


Pledge   to    the   Three    Graces 

By  each  golden  circle  we  pledge  to  the  last 
A  friendship  that's  precious,  enduring,  and  fast; 
So  fill  up  the  bumper,  and  drink  while  we  may, 
For  life's  golden  moments  are  gliding  away. 

Aye,  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  each  shall  have  one. 
While  journeying  on  toward  the  far-setting  sun; 
So  fill  up  the  bumper,  and  drink  with  good  cheer; 
The  night  waneth  fast,  soon  morning  is  here. 

Hip,  hurrah!  just  one  bumper  we'll  drink  ere  we 

part,— 

The  drink,  fitting  emblem  and  wish  of  each  heart. 
May  our  lives  be  as  happy,  as  full,  as  complete, 
Our  friendship  as  strong,  and  our  union  as  sweet. 


Words   on   Reading   the    Lines 

"Sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is 
Remembering  happier  things." 

— Tennyson. 

Into  whose  lives  have  come  happy  things, 
Kemembrance  sweet  joy  perpetually  brings. 
Beyond  measure  blessed,  thrice  happy  are  they, 
Though  clouds  may  overshadow  on  life's  rugged  way. 

Oh,  thus  but  to  live  for  one  brief,  happy  hour 
Increases  our  faith  in  Omnipotent  Power; 
Nor  can  grief  or  pain  bring  back  the  sad  dearth 
Of  which  we  were  conscious  ere  joy  had  its  birth. 
Though  stricken  and  dead,  brief  its  bright  stay; 
Eesplendent  in  beauty,  it  lived  for  a  day. 
While  suffering  loss,  if  still  conscious  of  gain, 
'Twill  help  us  endure  and  triumph  in  pain. 

Murmuring,  learn  we  the  lessons  of  life; 
Great  joys  and  great  sorrows  ever  run  rife. 
Blindly  we  question  the  wisdom  of  God 
When  we  are  commanded,  "Pass  under  the  rod." 


92 


The    Secret   Chamber 

Each  heart  holds  its  secret  chamber 
Where  the  statue  of  Memory  stands, 

All  written  with  varied  inscriptions 
With  a  fine,  but  indelible,  hand. 

Joy  starts  with  a  grand  little  flourish, 
Unheeding  where'er  he  will  end, 

Wlien  Care  gives  a  jolt,  and  he  loses 
The  beauty  and  grace  he  has  penned. 

Hope  climbs  to  place  her  inscription 
Well  above  and  in  front  of  the  rest; 

But  stumbles  and  falls,  while  protesting 
Her  motives  are  surely  the  best. 

Faith  blindly  works,  slowly  achieving 
A  beauteous,  bright,  shining  spot, 

And  insists  'tis  the  greatest  of  virtues 
The  helpers  of  mortals  have  wrought. 

Love  follows  along  in  her  footsteps, 
And  toils  with  such  magical  art 

That  she  weaves  a  glittering  circle 
Which  embellishes  every  part. 

93 


94  The  Secret  Chamber 

Hate,  Envy,  and  Malice,  the  trio, 
Oft  toiling  with  such  eager  zest, 

Assisted  at  odd  times  by  Folly, 

Soon  mar  all  achieved  by  the  rest. 

Grief  mourns  o'er  the  wrecks  with  sad  anguish; 

She  cuts  deep  into  the  gloss, 
And  declares,  while  reviewing  her  labor, 
"Alas!  alas!  it's  all  dross." 

But  Duty  and  Patience  are  plodding 
In  a  dark,  little  niche  of  their  own, 

Where  they  add  to  the  work  done  by  Pleasure, 
As  shades  to  a  picture  give  tone. 

Each  moment  is  wrought  some  inscription, 
Though  silent  and  all  out  of  sight. 

Oh!  happy  the  days  which  in  passing 

Are  reviewed  with  keen  pleasure  at  night. 


The   Marrying   Widow 

The  following  piece  needs  a  few  words  of  expla 
nation.  It  was  written  in  answer  to  a  granger 
advertising  in  the  grange  that  he  wanted  a  wife,  and 
was  not  particular  as  to  who  she  was,  as  his  affec 
tions  were  so  scattered,  and  any  lady  in  the  grange 
was  good  enough.  It  reminded  me  of  a  man  who 
wanted  to  purchase  a  barrel  of  apples,  and  said 
apples  were  apples;  any  of  them  were  good  enough. 
But  when  offered  russets,  said  they  were  good 
keepers,  but  he  did  not  like  the  kind.  The  next 
offered  were  Smith's  ciders,  and  they  were  too  sour; 
then  the  maiden  blush.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "they 
are  a  nice  looking  apple,  but  are  apt  to  be  rotten 
at  the  core."  So  I  wrote  the  following: — 

I  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  dim,  fading  light, 

And    thought   of    that    poor,    lonely    granger's    sad 

plight, 

How  he  wants  a  young  wife,  not  a  chit  of  a  girl, 
Who'd  spend  all  her  time  to  keep  her  front  hair  in 

curl. 

He  wants  Miss  Perfection,  that's  plain  as  can  be; 
And  just  come  to  think,  she's  most  exactly  like  me. 
This  staggered  me  some,  and  I  sat  quite  a  spell. 
"He  may  be  too  young,  yet  you  never  can  tell." 

95 


96  The  Marrying    Widow 

For  look  through  the  world,  on  its  vast  population., 

You'll  see  every  age  in  the  marriage  relation, 

Till    people    might   say,    "There's    a   man   and   his 

mother/' 

Or,  "There's  an  old  lady  and  her  younger  brother." 
So,  if  his  scattered  affections  should  center  on  me, 
I'm  as  marrying  a  widow  as  he'll  likely  see. 

I'm  promised  by  contract  to  one,  two,  or  three. 
You  wonder  to  whom — well,  I'll  tell  you,  maybe. 
"Then  why  don't  I  marry?"     Ah!  there  comes  the 

rub; 
Some  dear,  bright-eyed  woman  calls  each  man  her 

hub. 

Of  course,  they  all  say  they  were  led  to  the  altar 
Before  they  saw  me,  or  their  footsteps  would  falter. 

You  ask  any  granger,  he  will  say  'tisn't  he; 
But  if  he  were  a  widower,  you'd  see  what  you'd  see. 
If  the  man  is  past  middle  age,  that's  all  the  better; 
He'll  want  a  new  wife  just  to  humor  and  pet  her. 
So,  if  his  scattered  affections  should  center  on  me, 
I'm  as  marrying  a  widow  as  he'll  likely  see. 

So  I  move  and  amend,  without  the  first  flaw, 
A  matrimonial  bureau  become  a  grange  law. 
Ah!  I  hear  that  low  whisper,  "'Tis  a  good  notion." 


Woman's  Rights  97 

Don't  all  rise  at  once  just  to  "second  the  motion/' 
For  if  this  said  bureau  should  become  a  grange  law, 
Then  every  young  lady  would  invest  in  a  draw. 

And  all  married  members  would  call  it  intrusion; 
That  would  take  up  the  time,  and  all  end  in  con 
fusion. 
So  Til  done  with  my  nonsense  ere  you  rate  me  a 

dunce, 

And  order  my  trousseau  completed  at  once, 
For,  if  his  scattered  affections  should  center  on  me, 
I'm  as  marrying  a  widow  as  he'll  likely  see. 

Woman's   Rights 

So  much  is  talked  of  nowadays 
Of  woman's  rights  and  wrongs, 

And  studied  on  the  problem 
Of  what  to  her  belongs, 

That  I've  often  thought  I'd  like  to  know 

Why  all  this  hue  and  cry, 
And  why  these  precious  privileges 

Our  lords  to  us  deny. 

For,  if  one  man  was  not  complete 

Without  a  better  half, 
How  can  a  nation's  council  hold 

Without  this  prop  or  staff? 


Woman1 .3  Rig hts 

She  may,  perhaps,  lack  wisdom 
To  guide  "the  ship  of  state/' 

But  she  need  not  be  the  captain. 
Just  first  or  second  mate; 

For  there  are  many  offices, 
Of  county,  town,  or  state, 

Which  she  could  fill  with  honor, 
And  in  time  might  legislate. 

She  would  not  touch  the  tariff, 
Nor  steal  the  extra  cash, 

But  quickly  would  prohibit 
All  intoxicating  trash. 

She  would  bottle  all  the  grape  juice 

In  unfermented  wine, 
And  sell  it  to  the  laborers, 

Without  licenses  or  fines. 

But  intoxicating  liquors, 
Too  poisonous  for  drinks, 

Would  find  their  way  to  ditches 
Through  sewer  pipes  and  pinks. 

No  criminals  nor  paupers 

From  any  foreign  shore 
Should  land  at  Castle  Garden, 

From  hence,  forevermore. 


Woman's  Eights  99 

No  foreign  prince  or  syndicate 
Should  gain,  by  wealth  or  power, 

Our  manufactories  or  land 
To  own  a  single  hour. 

These  syndicates  thus  forming, 

Eun  by  a  foreign  head, 
Now  make  our  beer,  and  own  our  land, 

And  bake  our  very  bread. 

I  will  not  tell  all  they  would  do, 

If  women  took  the  lead, 
But  surely  all  our  voters 

Would  know  how  to  write  and  read. 

Then  capital  and  labor 

"Would  cease  to  be  at  strife, 
For  equal  rights  and  justice 

Would  be  the  rule  of  life. 

But  I  pause,  without  alluding 

To  other  errors  great  and  small, 
And  ask  you  to  extend 

The  rights  of  suffrage  to  all. 


To   Let 

Fve  a  mansion  to  let, 
And,  just   by  the  way, 

Shall  ask  the  fair  tenant 
Some  rental  to  pay; 

She  must  love  and  honor 
And  likewise  obey. 

When  any  young  lady 

With  these  terms  will  comply, 
I  shall  be  most  happy 

To  receive  her  reply. 
So  now,  my  dear  ladies, 

Pray  do  not  forget 
That  I  have  a  bachelor's 

Mansion  to  let. 

Answer — 

Ah!  you've  a  mansion. to  let, 

And  in  it  would  live, 
And  ask  the  fair  tenant 

Three  payments  to  give. 
I've  a  heap  of  affection, 

Which  I  could  bestow, 
For  a  season,  at  least, 

On  a  mansion  below. 
100 


To  Let  101 


I  should  render  the  honor, 

At  least  unto  you, 
For  it's  easy  to  honor 

Where  honor  is  due. 
Of  course,  you  expect 

In  all  business  affairs 
To  furnish  the  mansion, 

And  keep  up  repairs. 

In  business  agreements, 

I  think  it  is  true^ 
Till  the  lease  is  run  out 

The  last  payment's  not  due; 
And  then,  should  I  fail 

To  bring  it  about, 
You'd  have  the  great  pleasure 

Of  moving  me  out. 

So,  if  the  mansion  is  ready, 
And  you're  not  a  dunce, 

I'll  make  my  arrangements 
To  move  in  at  once. 


What's   in    a   Kiss 

What's  in  a  kiss? — "Just  hope  and  bliss," 
They  tell  us  fondly  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  then  with  loving  words  implore 
Us  to  believe  there's  nothing  more. 

But  one  who  understands  the  art 
Will  tell  how  kisses  reach  the  heart, 
When  through  the  eyes  the  soul's  caress 
Conveys  a  lofty  tenderness. 

Then  through  sweet  lips  will  softly  steal 
The  secrets  which  no  words  reveal; 
They,  like  a  mirror,,  will  impart 
The  mysteries  of  a  truant  heart. 

Who  would  with  lying  lips  deceive 
Leaves  kisses  which  in  silence  grieve. 
Let  reason  share  in  love's  delight, 
And  scorn  deception's  lasting  blight. 

Who'd  know  the  full  and  free  delight 
Of  truly  loving  kisses'  might 
Must  keep  the  precepts  of  their  youth, 
For  valued  kisses  smack  of  truth. 

Then  they  hold  more  than  hope  and  bliss, 
Hold  full  content  and  happiness. 
102 


What   Is   Love 

We  have  met,  and,  simply  meeting,, 
Passed  the  common  words  of  greeting. 
Glancing  at  your  eye  and  age, 
As  one  scans  the  title-page 
Of  a  new  and  unread  book, 
Was  there  magic  in  your  look? 

'Twas  a  strange,  mysterious  power 
That  enthralled  me  from  that  hour; 
But,  like  the  critic,  student,  sage, 
I  ask  for  more  than  title-page. 
Would  it  disturb  this  outward  calm 
Were  I  to  seek  the  hidden  charm? 

Disturb  it  not,  as  leaf  to  bower; 

Unconscious  pride  has  princely  power; 

Fineness  and  fitness  well  combined 

We  ever  seek,  but  seldom  find; 

But  when  once  found,  though  love  be  blind 

'Twill  recognize  its  own  sweet  kind. 

What  makes  the  waiting  heart  rejoice 

At  the  sweet  accents  of  a  voice? — 

'Tis  the  same  law  that  guides  the  spheres, 

Or  controls  the  source  of  human  tears, 

That  brings  the  wind  from  out  its  source, 

And  holds  the  circlets  through  their  course. 

103 


104  My   Cranky   Clock 

Then  seek  this  law,,  to  us  unknown,, 
Which  makes  love  claim  its  very  own, 
And  then  forget  both  time  and  place 
While  gazing  on  a  loving  face. 
All  hearts  respond  to  music  grand 
When  keys  are  swept  by  a  master  hand. 

Where  truth  and  honor  are  combined 
(The  rarest  gifts  from  the  hand  divine), 
With  conscience  guiding  a  keen  delight, 
Naught  can  fill  our  lives  with  nameless  blight 
For,  as  the  waters  fill  the  sea, 
Our  little  world  holds  you  and  me. 

Oh,  love!  life's  sweetest  mystery, 
That  brightens  all  eternity! 

My    Cranky   Clock 

My  cranky  clock  sits  on  the  shelf, 
And  has  the  brass  to  run  itself. 
Sometimes  it's  fast,  sometimes  it's  slow; 
It  often  strikes,  yet  still  will  go. 

And  when  I  wind  it  once  a  week, 
'Twill  laugh  aloud  and  nearly  speak. 
You  think  I've  no  reason  to  thus  complain, 
But  hear  me  out,  and  I'll  explain. 


My  Cranky  Clock 


It  must  be  for  the  want  of 

Its  hours  are  never  quite  of  length. 

Of  all  the  strokes  in  twenty-four 

(I've  watched  and  counted  o'er  and  o'er), 

The  clock  and  I  do  quite  agree 
The  longest  is  from  two  to  three. 
Both  Jack  and  I  can  hardly  tell 
Which  one  of  alFs  the  shortest  spell 

At  break  of  day,  from  five  to  six, 
Fm  sure  it  makes  its  fastest  ticks; 
But  Jack  avers  he'll  prove  by  men 
From  half  past  nine  to  half  past  ten 

Is  much  the  shortest  he  can  trace 
Upon  that  old  clock's  dial  face. 
Once  that  old  clock,  when  I  was  sick, 
Just  had  a  fit  and  wouldn't  tick. 

It  woke  me  up  in  such  a  fright,— 
The  time  was  dead,  and  it  was  night, 
And  it  was  dark,  yes,  black  as  death,— 
It  nearly  took  away  my  breath. 

Ere  this  I  had  not  known  its  worth; 
I  thought  that  clock  just  run  the  earth; 
But  it  has  taken  streaks  since  then; 
I  can't  tell  how,  I  can't  tell  when. 


106        Declining  an  TnvitaMon  to  a  Banquet 

But  Jack  comes  home,  he's  had  big  fun, 
Declares  that  clock  has  fairly  spun. 
Now  this  is  the  puzzle,  as  you'll  see, 
Which  is  the  crank?  which  of  us  three? 
The  clock  or  Jack,  or  is  it  me? 

To   Friends    Declining   an    Invitation   to 
a   Banquet 

With  this  I  send  you  kindly  greeting, 
And  gladly  would  attend  your  meeting, 
But  muddy  roads  and  cloudy  skies 
And  fate  decree  it  otherwise. 

Although  I  can  not  take  each  hand, 
You'll  feel  my  presence,  understand. 
Though  other  tones  these  words  repeat, 
Through  waves  of  space  our  spirits  meet. 

Most     heartily  I  wish  you  joy, 
Life's  blessings  all  without  alloy. 
We  lightly  change  from  place  to  place, 
But  sadly  miss  each  kindly  face. 

In  months  of  absence  how  it  cheers 
To  think  of  long,  long,  passing  years! 
What  bonds  of  friendship,  good  and  true, 
I  have  imposed  and  found  with  you. 


Old  Shoe*  107 

And  though  you  miss,  when  I  am  gone, 
Some  strain  of  music  through  your  song 
('Tis  selfish  I  should  wish  you  pain), 
Fm  glad  you  miss  my  minor  strain. 

And  when  again  we're  blessed  to  meet, 
Some  dear  old  songs  we  will  repeat. 
Now  your  kind  indulgence  I  implore; 
Good  wishes  send,  and  nothing  more. 


Old   Shoes 

1  sit  here  impatient,  my  feet  on  a  chair; 
There's  something  amiss,  I  just  vow  and  declare; 
I  never  once  more  will  go  out  on  the  street 
With  these  horrid,  old  shoes  again  on  my  feet. 

They've  grown  so  ill-shaped,  all  stretched  at  the  side, 
For  more  than  a  month  they  have  wounded  my  pride; 
Some  buttons  are  off,  one's  ripped  at  the  heel; 
I  can't  half  express  the  disgust  that  I  feel. 

Fm  sure  they  detract  from  the  rest  of  my  clothes, 

The  polish  all  off  to  the  tips  of  their  toes; 

They've  done  well,  it's  true;   Fve  had  them  half- 

soled, 
So  they're  surely,  decidedly,  shockingly  old. 


J-08  Old  Shoes 

"Entirely  worthless/'  you've  just  heard  me  say, 
"So  Til  rip  off  the  buttons,  and  throw  them  away." 
Just  here  one  has  seemed  to  stare  up  in  my  face, 
And  whisper,  "Kemember  we  each  knew  our  place. 

"We've    carried    you    through    some    dreadful    bad 

weather 
Since    we   three   good   friends   have   been   so    close 

together; 

The  marks  on  our  uppers,  the  scars  on  our  soles, 
Show  plainly  enough  our  part  on  the  roll. 

"We've  quietly  watched  and  measured  your  paces, 
With  most  constant  care  kept  you  well  in  the  traces; 
Some  blunders  we've  saved  you  of  which  we'll  not 

speak, 
By  expressing  disfavor  with  a  sharp,  little  squeak. 

"Let  me  tell  you  one  thing,  ere  you  ruthlessly  rend 
The  last  tie  between  us,  dear,  trusted,  old  friend; 
In  your  ups  and  your  downs,  in  your  last,  reckless 

races, 
We've  stood  both  the  rough  and  the  slippery  places. 

"On  one  or  the  other  you've  thrown  your  full  heft. 
And  we've  seen  that  your  honor  has  never  got  left. 
When  we  made  your  acquaintance,  it  was  a  tight 

squeeze 
To  keep  up  connections,  yon  were  so  hard  to  please. 


Money -Bags  109 

"Some  time  in  the  future,  some  long  day  in  June, 
You'll    think,    'Ah,    perhaps,    we    have    parted    too 


soon;' 


When  the  corns  and  the  bunions  puff  out  at  the  side. 
And  the  wretched,  old  pain  has  devoured  all  your 
pride. 

"Then  you'll  think  of  the  soft,  solid  comfort  we've 

^  had, 

That  in  parting  so  soon  you  were  really  half  mad, 
Or,  at  least,  must  have  been  in  a  fit  of  the  blues 
When  you  cast  us  aside  as  worthless,  old  shoes." 

Money-Bags 

I'm  living  in  a  little  world,  not  wholly  by  myself, 
For  there  are  many  fairies  here,  and  many  a  little 

elf; 
We're    plagued    for    locomotion,    we're    limited    in 

space, 
And  all  these  pesky  little  imps  keep  getting  out  of 

place. 

I  plan  some  great  achievement;  on  their  help  I  must 

insist, 
But  the  little  scamp  called  Money-bags  is  surely  to 

be  missed. 

1  call  out  grave  detectives,  Industry  looks  around, 
And  soons  reports,  with  gravity,  "He's  nowhere  to 

be  found." 


HO  Mo  i  ley -Bag  s 

Necessity  moves  uneasily,   and,   breathing  a  gentle 

sigh, 
Remarks,  with  quiet  candor,  "You're  looking  quite 

too  high;" 
But  Folly  joins  with  Vanity,  crying,  "Out  upon  such 

stuff;" 
And  both  declare  in  concert,  "You  don't  look  high 

enough." 

Imprudence,    Sloth,    and    Envy  say,    "He's    loafing 

round  with  Chance;"  ' 
While  Innocence  and  Cunning  say,  "He's  out  with 

Circumstance." 
Indifference  says,  "Don't  worry,  we  can  live  for  many 

days, 
And  get  along  without  him,   and   plan  in   various 

ways." 

"Old  Lawrence"  says,  "Don't  hurry,  you'll  find  my 

logic  sound; 
Just  set  a  trap  and  catch  him;  he's  sure  to  come 

around." 
Here  Prudence  says,  "Be  careful,   don't  trust  him 

long  from  sight, 
For  with  his  protracted  absence  Convenience  feels 

the  slight." 

And  thus  the  time  is  wasted  in  much  argument  and 
strife, 


Money- Bags  111 

Till  the  tyrant  Indecision  is  the  bane  of  all  my  life. 
While  all  are  idly  waiting  Dame  Fortune  passes  by, 
For  Energy  is  prostrate;  I  ask  of  Reason,  "Why?" 

The  answer  is  decisive,  "The  scamp  is  hard  to  find; 
He's  hidden  now  from  Justice,  and  she's  both  dumb 

and  blind; 
He  slipped  away  from  Wisdom's  grasp,  very  much 

to  her  disgust; 
Has  ever  since  been  smuggled  in  the  rings  of  every 

trust. 

"Let  Vigilance  and  Honesty  no  longer  frauds  endure; 
Leave  Envy,  Wrong,  and  Avarice,  'twill  soon  effect 

a  cure. 
This  would  soon  correct  the  rascal,  that's  grown  so 

overbold, 
And  show  his  humble  origin;  he  was  always  bought 

and  sold." 

All  are  scorning  old  Necessity;  he  is  his  next  of  kin; 
It's  downright  inconsistent  that  we  nearly  worship 

him, 
Right   here   in    our    America,    it    seems    exceeding 

strange, 
Where  our  money  was  created  just  for  medium  of 

exchange. 


112  If  He  but  Had  My  Wisdom 

MORAL — 

If  we  would  do  by  others  just  exactly  as  we  should, 
Then  we'd  find  they'd  do  by  us  just  exactly  as  they 
should. 


If   He    but   Had   My   Wisdom 

If  he  but  had  my  wisdom,  or  I  possessed  his  strength, 
Such  a  mighty  combination  would  run  through  this 

century's  length. 
You  would  see  a  silver  airship  that  would  climb  the 

rainbow's  track, 
And  visit   Mar's  inhabitants  long  before   it   would 

come  back. 

There  would  be  hydraulic  mining  done  in  minted, 

golden  showers, 
Till  fives  and  tens  and  twenties  fell  like  raindrops 

on  the  flowers. 
You  could  glide  across  the  ocean  with  the  swiftness 

of  the  wind, 
And  bring  from   foreign   countries   gems   of   every 

form  and  kind; 

For  all  the  modest  mermaids  would  be  quite  in  love 

with  me, 
And  bring   all   their  wondrous   treasures  from   the 

bottom  of  the  sea. 


If  He  but  Had  My   Wisdom  113 

You  would  see  a  horseless  carriage  speeding  up  and 

down  the  grade 
That  would  leave  the  automobile  altogether  in  the 

shade. 

It's  then   some   new   inventions  would  be   running 

smooth  as  silk; 
You'd  be  supplied  with  butter  made  without  a  drop 

of  milk; 
For  I  know  a  fine  location  which,  without  a  doubt., 

would  pay — 
You  would  see  a  large,  new  creamery  in  the  unused 

Milky  Way. 

All  the  crimes  would  be  abolished;  there  would  be 

no  time  to  run. 
Criminals  would  be  apprehended  long  before  their 

deeds  were  done. 
Then  the   old   man,   always   watching  through   the 

darkness  to  the  light, 
Would  report  to  all  the  papers  all  the  mysteries  of 

the  night. 

Marconi's  talking  wonder  we  could  easily  eclipse, 
For   this   same   old  Moony   lately   gave   me   several 

tips. 
So,  if  he  but  had  my  wisdom,  or  I  possessed  his 

strength, 
Such  a  mighty  combination  would  run  through  this 

century's  length. 


The   Sea 

0  the  sea,  the  sea!  the  wild,  wide  sea, 
Is  a  constant  source  of  joy  to  me. 
Restless,  tireless,  and  turbulent  tide, 
Fairest  of  all,  thou  art  nature's  bride. 

Kissing  the  sunshine,  wedding  the  storm, 
You  eagerly  welcome  both  night  and  morn. 
Mountains  are  silent,  the  stars  quite  profound- 
Ocean  was  given  both  motion  and  sound. 

Source   of  the  raindrops,   that   earth's   verdure 

renew, 

Quickly  dispelling  volcanoes  from  view; 
Torrents  embracing,  soon  forming  a  part 
Of  mystical  music,  born  in  your  heart. 

Storm-driven  billows,  with  beauty  wrought, 
Ebbing  and  flowing,  dissolving  to  naught, 
Together  ye  speak  of  birth  and  of  shroud, 
Foam-crested  billows  so  quickly  plowed. 

Mists  from  thy  bosom,  wondrously  fair, 
Triumphant  in  beauty,  rise  through  the  air, 
Cradle  of  color  and  rainbow  to  be, 
Born  in  the  clouds,  but  conceived  in  the  sea. 


114 


Rain  115 

These  constant  motions  but  faintly  impart 
The  life-giving  force  and  throb  of  your  heart. 
Forever  and  ever  your  wavelets  repeat 
Anthems  both  solemn  and  grandly  complete. 


Rain 

Dark  above  and  black  below, 

Slush  and  mud  wherever  you  go; 

Mud  and  slush  make  the  travel  slow, 

A.nd  through  the  gutters  black  waters  flow. 

The  house  is  dumb  as  with  silent  pain, 

And  footsteps  hushed  by  mud  and  stain; 

The  wind  is  stilled  to  a  soft  refrain, 

As  it  sobs  and  sighs  through  this  ceaseless  rain. 

The  crops  all  ruined,  the  farmer  blue, 
His  faithful  wife  in  a  dreadful  stew, 
The  children  caged,  with  nothing  to  do, 
All,  all,  alike,  wish  the  rain  were  through. 

But  it  patters  and  splashes  on  roof  and  sill, 
And  seems  to  enjoy  its  own  sweet  will, 
As  it  rushes  in  torrents  or  ripples  in  rills, 
From  the  mountain's  side  or  the  wooded  hills. 


116  October 

The  town  seems  wrapped  in  a  thick,  dark  haze, 
That  has  long  shut  out  the  sun's  bright  rays; 
It  has  rained  for  nights;  it  has  rained  for  days; 
Still  it  rains,  and  rains,  and  rains  always. 

The  men  all  grumble  and  call  it  rough, 
The  schoolboys  say  it  is  awful  tough, 
The  girls  declare  it  is  horrid  stuff, 
And  we  all  agree  that  we've  had  enough. 

Still  dark  above  and  black  below, 
It  first  rains  fast  and  then  rains  slow. 
AYill  it  ever  cease  this  raining  so? 
The  weather-prophet  don't  even  know. 


October 

The  lovely,  bright,  and  perfect  days 

Of  October  now  are  here, 
With  all  their  gathered  golden  wealth 

For  the  crowning  of  the  year. 

The  promises  of  May  and  June, 
With  their  leafy  buds  and  flowers. 

You  have  fulfilled  abundantly, 

Through  sunshine,  shade,  and  showers. 


Cider -Apples  117 

All  the  perfumes  of  the  seasons 
You  have  gathered  in  your  fruits; 

All  the  colors  of  Flora's  kingdom 
Are  woven  in  their  suits. 

Every  tree  in  the  old,  old  forests 

Has  put  on  its  tinted  leaves, 
In  honor  of  your  coming 

With  your  bright  and  golden  sheaves. 

While  time  turns  his  lunar  circles 
That  the  changing  seasons  bring, 

Among  these  loyal  subjects  you 
Will  ever  be  crowned  their  king. 

Cider-Apples 

Cider-apples,  cider-apples,  cider-apples,  if  you  please. 
Cider-apples,  cider-apples,  just  the  refuse  from  the 

trees, 
Green,   brown,  and   golden   russets,  and   a   few   old 

Tallman  sweets, 
Such  a  wild   conglomeration   I'm   sure   one   seldom 

meets. 

Cider-apples  seem  so  worthless,  all  strewn  upon  the 

ground, 
So  wormy,  bruised,  and  rotting,  no  choice  ones  to 

be  found. 


Pen   and   Ink 

What  can  we  do  to  save  them?     They're  surely  of  no 

use, 
Unless   we   manage   someway   to   just   extract   their 

juice. 

Let  us   gather   cider-apples,   and  truly   learn   their 

worth 
By  changing  to  a  beverage  well-known  throughout 

the  earth. 
It's  a  hard  and  tedious  process,  for  they  must  all  be 

crushed 
Through  a  mill  in  perfect  order,  without  one  speck 

of  rust. 

Then  we  have  a  drink  perfected  to  compare  with  all 

the  rest, 

Most  delicious  and  refreshing,  by  far  the  very  best. 
?Tis  then   our   cider-apples,   or  apple   cider,  if  you 

please, 
ISTo  more  is  counted  worthless  or  refuse  from  the 

trees. 


Pen    and   Ink 

I  was  asked  to  write  a  poem  and  given  pen  and  ink; 
"You  couldn't  write  without  them/'  he  said,  with 
knowing  wink. 


Pen  and   Ink  119 

"But  you  don't  catch,  my  meaning;  you  asked  me 

once  to  choose. 
Just  take  them  for  your  subject;  you  will  not  dare 

refuse." 

So  I  take  them  for  my  subject,  just  simply  pen  and 

ink; 

"Queer  subject  for  a  poem,"  as  any  one  may  think. 
If  I  should  write  a  letter  to  a  man  I  can  not  see, 
I  know  that  he'd  be  happy  to  get  one  line  from  me. 

'Twould  wake  the  silent  echoes  all  through  his  heart 

and  brain; 
He'd  think  the  halcyon  days  of  youth  had  all  come 

back  again. 
And  what  would  I  put  in  this  letter?     It  seems  so 

hard  to  tell 
Of  days  so  long  and  lonely,  while  in  health  I'm  very 

well; 

That  my  love  has  ne'er  grown  weary  through  his 
long  and  dreary  stay, 

But  my  heart  is  like  a  bird-cage  when  the  bird  has 
flown  away; 

That  I  see  his  face  in  dreamland,  in  silence  of  the 
night, 

But  it  vanishes  with  shadows  in  the  gleam  of  morn 
ing  light, 


120  The  Black  Sheep 

Making   life   more   pain   than   pleasure   with   these 

meetings  of  extremes, 
Till  my  life  seems  only  living  just  these  moments  of 

my  dreams. 
Then  I  waken  with  a  struggle  when  I  think  I  hear 

him  sigh; 
Again   I   live   our   parting   o'er   and   hear   his   sad 

Good-by. 

Thus  would  I   fill  my   letter  with   sweet   nonsense 

much  like  this, 
And  he  would  know  I  wrote  it  and  had  sealed  it 

with  a  kiss. 
If  one  could  not  get  letters  from  their  loved  ones, 

who  could  think 
How  much  sweetness  is  embodied  in  the  senseless 

pen  and  ink? 

The   Old   Black   Sheep 

The  one  black  sheep  of  my  father's  flock 
Would  some  way  get  mixed  with  the  other  stock; 
Although  unwelcome  and  much  in  the  way, 
It  seemed  determined  right  there  to  stay. 
Its  fleece  held  the  marks  of  hoofs  and  horns, 
While  closely  embedded  were  covered  thorns; 
Burrs  and  thistles  were  hidden  deep 
In  the  wool  of  this  old,  worthless  sheep. 


THE     OLD     BLACK     S  II  E  E  1' 


\  S  R  .4 


The   Old  Black  Sheep  121 

Till  utterly  worthless  seemed  the  wool, 
Of  sticks  and  briars  it  was  so  full; 
Yet  one  could  trace  a  glittering  thread, 
Which  might  have  improved  if  properly  fed. 
But  kicked  and  cuffed  and  knocked  about, 
Sometimes  fenced  in  and  then  locked  out, 
'Twas  not  much  wonder  it  went  astray; 
Poor  thing,  it  knew  no  better  way. 

Thus  alone,  it  wandered  where 

The  mountain-tops  were  bleak  and  bare, 

Until  it  came  to  a  rippling  stream, 

And  followed  it  down  through  the  meadows  green, 

Where  it  basked  in  the  sunshine  of  God's  pure  light. 

But  felt  the  stings  in  the  frosts  of  night. 

Sometimes  it  fared  better,  sometimes  fared  worse, 

But  ever  seemed  like  a  thing  accursed; 

Till  at  last  it  sank  by  the  river's  brink, 

Where  the  banks  were  so  steep  it  could  not  drink. 

Oh!  is  there  ever  more  piteous  plight 

Than  dying  of  thirst  with  the  stream  in  sight? 

Thus  the  poor  creature  suffered  day  after  day, 

Till  a  wandering  hunter  passed  that  way. 

As  suffering  creatures  move  the  heart, 

So  the  hunter  stopped  with  a  sudden  start, 

Then  doffed  his  hat  in  the  river's  brink, 

And  brought  to  the  suffering  creature  drink, 


122  The  Old  Black  Sheep 

And  felt  repaid  by  the  dumb  surprise 
That  crept  up  through  the  creature's  eyes. 

Thus  was  formed  a  golden  link; 
Blessed  was  the  hand  for  giving  drink. 
Gladly  the  hunter  would  have  borne  it  away, 
In  the  mists  of  the  morning,  dull  and  gray, 
But  the  sheep  was  shocked  by  the  sudden  strain 
And  forced  to  cry  out  in  its  bitter  pain. 
Compelled  to  go  by  the  morning  light, 
He  sought  her  again  at  shade  of  night; 
But  the  creature  had  perished  during  the  day. 
And  vultures  had  stripped  its  fleece  away. 
So  he  opened  the  earth  with  tender  care, 
And  buried  the  carcass  then  and  there. 

Then  he  gathered  the  wool  in  his  haversack, 

And  carried  it  miles  and  miles  on  his  back, 

Till  at  last  he  came  to  a  market  town, 

Where  experts  said  it  was  soft  as  down, 

That  gloss  and  texture  were  both  complete, 

For  royal  heads  or  for  fairies'  feet. 

So  the  hunter  found  when  the  fleece  was  sold 

That  he  was  rich  in  his  counted  gold. 

Thus  worthy  works  of  human  kind 

Are  often  lost  to  the  sordid  mind, — 

Are  like  the  gloss  of  this  silken  thread. 

That  never  was  known  till  the  sheep  was  dead. 


The   Fellow 

J  remember  well  when  this  face  was  fair, 
Not  a  thread  of  silver  ran  through  my  hair. 
My  cheeks  and  my  lips  had  a  ruddy  glow 
Which  only  the  innocent  ever  know. 

I  loved  all  unwisely,  yet  far  too  well; 

'Twas  the  old,  old  story — I  sinned  and  I  fell. 

Why  tell  how  I  passed  that  season  of  woe, 

And  brought  back  revenge  from  the  regions  below? 

When  scorned  by  fair  women  and  jeered  at  by  men, 
I  vowed  that  my  vengeance  should  fall  upon  them; 
'Twas  thus  I  sunk  low  in  the  vortex  of  sin, 
And  long,  wear}7  years  I  traveled  therein. 

Then  came  to  our  den  a  Samaritan  bold, 
To  bring  back  the  lost  ones  into  the  fold. 
My  God!  could  it  be  that  I  beheld  him 
Who  long  years  ago  had  taught  me  to  sin? 

With  meekness  and  sorrow  he  heard  my  despair, 
Then  bowed  low  his  head  in  a  most  earnest  prayer. 
He  asked  the  good  Saviour  to  ever  forgive, 
And  grant  that,  though  sinners,  we  even  might  live. 

I  learned  from  his  prayer  of  God's  infinite  love, 
And  peace  like  a  spirit  came  down  from  above; 
Though  bad  as  he'd  wronged  me  that  far-distant  day, 
Fd  sown  the  same  seed  all  the  long,  wretched  way. 

123 


124  Forgive 

But  as  I  joined  in  the  prayer,  "Dear  Father  above, 
Who  drowns  all  our  sin  in  Thine  infinite  love/' 
I  heard  this  plain  answer,  "Oh!  look  up  and  live; 
As  you  have  forgiven,  I  also  forgive." 

Forgive 

If  I  could  write  some  matchless  words 

To  live  when  I  am  dead, 
Fd  tell  where  God's  most  wondrous  truths 

Are  ever  to  be  read. 

Not  only  on  the  printed  page, 
Which  men  in  parchment  bind, 

But  traced  upon  the  seething  waves, 
And  borne  upon  the  wind. 

In  wondrous  tints  of  rainbow  hues, 

Munificent  and  grand, 
And  wrought  with  beauty  on  the  rocks, 

Indelible  they  stand. 

On  every  tree  and  hillside  shrub, 

Whoever  seeks  can  trace, 
In  every  varying  shade  of  light, 

Inscriptions  of  His  grace. 


Sunset  125 

In  human  hearts,  where  length  of  days 

Is  counted  by  good  deeds, 
The  blinded  eyes  of  suffering  ones 

Discern  them  in  their  needs. 

To  one  who  seeks  for  hidden  truths 

They  ever,  ever  live; 
The  grandest  of  all  hidden  truths 

Is  learning  to  forgive. 


Sunset 

In  cloudlets  on  the  mountain's  side 

Solemn  silence  settles  down, 
Which  to  my  childish  fancies  held 

The  terrors  of  a  frown. 

Unfathomed  were  thy  mysteries 

Of  starlit,  azure  skies; 
The  northern  lights  seemed  dancing  sprites. 

And  whispering  winds  were  sighs. 

Belated  cowboys'  shouts  are  heard 

From  far-off  distant  hills, 
And  frightened  birds  give  plaintive  notes, 

With  wild,  discordant  thrills. 


126  The   Valley  of  Silence 

Then  quickly  hushed  to  rest  again, 
The  silence  reigns  supreme; 

These  are  the  choicest  hours  of  life, 
Which  hold  day's  fading  gleam. 

When  shades  of  night  are  falling  fast, 
The  thrushes'  notes  are  stilled, 

And  hearts,  though  dumbly  praising,  are 
With  adoration  filled. 

The  dew  forms  on  the  lily's  leaf, 

A  hush  is  in  the  air, 
As  if  the  day  in  dying  had 

Invoked  a  silent  prayer. 

Instinctively  the  child  of  earth 
Is  moved  to  thoughts  above, 

And  through  day's  changing  circles 
Claims  God's  eternal  love. 


The   Valley   of   Silence 

I  was  brought  to  the  valley  of  silence, 
The  dim,  voiceless  valley  alone; 

Not  a  sigh,  a  breath,  or  a  heart-beat, 
Not  even  the  sound  of  my  own. 


The   Valley  of  Silence  127 

The  hush  was  so  solemn  and  holy. 
And  God  was  so  wondrously  near, 

With  great  love,  so  precious  and  perfect, 
I  knew  not  an  atom  of  fear. 

He  who  noteth  the  fall  of  the  sparrows, 
Ne'er  loses  a  small  grain  of  sand. 

He  gathers  the  mists  into  dewdrops, 
And  divideth  the  seas  from  the  land. 

The  stars  in  the  heavens  He  ruleth, 
And  none  ever  fall  from  His  sight. 

Can  we  question  the  infinite  visdom 
And  power  which  forever  is  right? 

He  gave  His  own  life  to  His  children; 

Thereafter  we  ever  are  blessed, 
For  life  is  surely  eternal, 

And  death  to  the  weary  sweet  rest. 


No   Creed 

I  have  no  creed,  save  this,  I  know 
Where  God's  pure  sunlight  falls  below; 
On  Christian,  heathen,  pagan  land, 
All  worship  as  they  understand. 

The  greatest  interpreter  is  truth, 
In  every  land  of  age  and  youth; 
And  all  by  this  fine  standard  given 
Must  find  their  way  at  last  to  heaven. 

Through  crooked  ways,  and  journeyings  long, 
And  suffering  much  from  evils  strong, 
All  bow  beneath  the  chastening  rod, 
And  learn  at  last  to  worship  God. 

While  groping  blindly  here  below, 
We  reap  alike  just  as  we  sow; 
And  dare  we  question  His  great  love? 
Who  rules  below  must  rule  above. 

While  doing  here  the  best  we  can, 
We're  working  nearest  wisdom's  plan; 
And  wait  not  for  a  future  time 
To  l>riT\sr  us  peace  and  joy  sublime. 

128 


December 

Fm  sitting  in  the  twilight  of  the  dumb,,  old,  dying- 
year, 

And  all  the  earth  is  barren,  so  solemn,  dull,  and 
drear; 

The  silent,  flitting  snowbirds,  the  sighing  of  the 
wind, 

Breathe  a  sad  and  tender  requiem  quite  in  keeping 
with  my  mind. 

I,  too,  am  fast  approaching  this  old,  solemn  time  of 

year, 
And  the  drear,  old,  dread  December  will  very  soon 

be  here. 
All  my  morn  was  gray  and  cloudy,  with  streaks  of 

lighter  gray, 
Till  it  seemed  but  little  sunshine  would  ever  cross 

my  way. 

It  was   well-nigh   past  the  noonday   when  the   sun 

shone  clear  and  bright, 

Enveloping  my  being  in  a  flood  of  heavenly  light. 
As  one  athirst  in  the  desert  will  leap  at  the  water's 

sound, 
So  my  heart,  long  silent  within  me,  came  to  life  with 

a  sudden  bound. 

f  129 


130  December 

Then  I  basked  in  the  golden  sunshine,  unheeding 
the  flight  of  time, 

A  hallowed,  passing  semblance  of  a  holier  and  hap 
pier  clime. 

Ah!  alas  for  my  sad  awakening!  the  dream  has 
passed  away, 

But  has  left  a  blessed  imagery  of  a  higher  and  hap 
pier  day. 

While  sitting  here  in  comfort,  with  peace  and  plenty 

blessed, 
As  one  after  toil  and  sorrow  has  a  welcoming  sense 

of  rest, 
At  times  some  dark  and  somber  clouds  will  flit  across 

the  way, 
And  make  me  sad  and  lonely  with  dread  of  a  dark. 

chill  day. 

While  pausing,  I  look  backward  through  the  long 
and  varied  way, 

With  a  sense  of  keen  enjoyment  towards  the  twi 
light's  golden  ray, 

For  whosoever  is  guided  by  One  who  is  always  right 

Is  sure  of  a  glorious  sunset  ere  the  black,  December 
night. 


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